Out of the Palm of His Hand
by BelhavenOnTap
Summary: Sequel to When the Sun Shone Warm Upon their Faces. Premovie but getting close to the beginning of the movie. Character death in first chapter but neither of the boys. M rating for violence and angst. And some MacManus humor too.
1. Bloodwork Part 2

A/N: Leah, Connor and Murph are back. They've got some last experiences to endure. I hope you don't hate me for it. I guess I'll know by the reviews. (Hint, hint.)

Murph was listening to his Walkman. He had a mountain of paperwork to go through in this bitch of a rotation. But it was the one he had been waiting to do: gerontology. You couldn't solve all their problems but you had to learn all their medical history and look for any interactions with current meds. And you better be on your feet with Helen Hurdle, looking over your shoulder. Geez. The woman was brilliant but she was demanding. He knew it was the best kind of training he could ever expect to receive. And she had already offered him a residency with her, so he had to act like a resident. It was the dream residency. Two weeks away from his degree but the level of expectation was higher now.

His cell phone rang.

"MacManus."

At this point, he looked at his watch. Fuck, it was seven and he hadn't called Leah or heard from her. He had lost track of time, rummaging through the next day's charts. He was supposed to call Leah at four to make sure she and Stan were heading out for the day.

"Murph."

Leah's voice sounded panicked.

"Leah, what's wrong?"

"Somebody rear-ended the car. Now it won't start. And I'm in ghetto land."

"Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine but it's really creepy. They're just sitting back there in their car. It's a car full of angry-looking males, wearing bandanas. I swear it looks like something out of that Robert Duvall, Sean Penn movie."

"Where are you?"

"A couple blocks from the Arboretum near the Shitgo murder mart."

"Christ. I'm on my way."

"Oh, god, Murph, they're getting out of the car."

"Leah, don't get out of the car. Lock the doors. Whatever you do. Don't get out of the car. What do they look like?"

"Oh, jeez. They're four of them. Oh, jeez, Murph. What the hell? Listen, it's a black BMW with the windows blacked out. I can't read the license plate. Here they come. I'm going to crack the window. Geez—"

Murphy ran as fast as he could to the car, as he talked to her. "What do they look like?"

"Like they're in a gang, Murph. Shit—"

He listened to the conversation. Hi, let me give you my insurance information. Here's a pen and paper if you'll write yours down.

Murphy could hear the fear in her voice that she was trying to hide. She was trying to sound diplomatic and cheerful. And then he heard something else.

Get outta the car, bitch.

"Leah! Try to start the car. Try anything." He screamed into the phone, as he tore out of the parking lot.

"It won't start. Oh my god. Murph!"

It was the most horrible sound he had ever heard. He heard her screaming. He heard Stan barking. He heard glass breaking. Leah screaming his name over and over and then pleading for them not to hurt her. The last thing he heard was her scream his name for help and then a thud and then silence.

He called the police as he drove and told the dispatcher what had happened. When he arrived at the place Leah described, there was Connor's car, the backend smashed, the driver's side window smashed out, Leah gone and Stan lying dead in the front seat, shot. Winos were lazing about against the mini mart entrance, scumbags roaming. No sign of a black BMW. Darkness had settled over this garden spot in hell but the occupants had come out for a gander.

Looks like a smash and grab, he overheard a cop say to another. Just a matter of time until they dump the body.

Gang initiation? The other cop in uniform asked.

Yeah, grab 'em, rape 'em then kill 'em. We'll find her in a ditch tomorrow.

The detective that Murphy was giving information to must have seen the change in his expression and excused himself for a moment to talk to the patrolmen.

"She's a pretty girl." The detective commented, taking the picture of Connor and Leah he had pulled from his wallet.

"Do ya see the man in this picture?" Murphy nearly screamed. "That is me twin brother. He exists solely for her. I promised him that I would take of her while he was out of town for three days. This is my fault. I forgot the time. I forgot the time."

Less than three hours later, Murph traveled through a series of actions he never could have dreamed. By the time it was over, he had identified the body of the only woman he had truly ever loved, had called his brother to tell him to come home as quickly as he could and called Leah's parents to tell them to come to Boston immediately.

He had never felt so alone in his life, looking at her battered face. As predicted, she had been gang-raped and then beaten to death then left for dead by the side of some shitty road in Jamaica Plain. They wouldn't let him hold her hand because evidence had not been taken yet. He made the phone calls then asked if he could just stay with her a little longer. He didn't want her to be alone. They relented for about ten minutes. He started asking questions about the way they extracted DNA and did they know that too much EDTA in the final storage buffer inhibited PCR. And couldn't they just let him take the evidence from her fingernails? He was trained in a molecular lab for Christ fuckin' sake, and had been able to get DNA out of single cell diatoms for the marine biology lab downstairs when he was an undergrad when none of the grad students could do it. What the fuck was taking them so long? I just want ta hold her hand! Ya bastards, yer gonna fuck this up and they'll never catch the people who did this to her! Ya bastards, she could take the DNA better than ye could, ye fuckers! He was removed from the morgue and driven in the back of a police car to the hospital, where he was admitted by a student that had no doubt looked up to him at one time when he was that student's mentor a few months before.

Helen was called in and whatever she gave him in the injection made him woozy but it was not powerful enough to keep him from hearing her and two of the other doctors with whom he had rotated verbally attack the patrolmen with all the ferocity of a trio of mongooses for handcuffing him and treating him like a criminal. His eyes fixated on the crucifix swinging like a metronome around Helen's neck as she roared at the two men with a fervor he had believed reserved for the pulpit. Go from this place. This young man is a healer. How dare you torture him in his time of need! You leave this place and remember your sworn duty to protect, to serve. Go now and do not return until you are worthy to come to a place of healing!

Helen discreetly admitted him into a private room, where some of the other faculty that he had known began to gather. Others he had never seen in his life.

The bastards had shot Stan, Rick's dog. It was another call he had to make and make the police understand that this dog's body was going to be claimed and they were to treat it with the utmost respect. He began to mumble rather incoherently about it. His mind wouldn't stop working but he couldn't articulate a fucking thing, but Helen seemed to understand. He watched and listened as Helen made the call to Rick and to the police.

People drifted in and out of the room all night and into the morning, where he must have drifted in and out of sleep.

People stood by and watched. Cars had driven past. People had seen this happen. And they had done nothing. I couldn't get there. I forgot the time. I forgot the time. He waked many times in the night, saying these things, his hand sometimes in Helen's, sometimes in a person's he didn't know.

And finally it was in a hand he knew well.

Connor's.

A/N: I am so sorry. But I think the guys got deepened somewhere. And we all know they're real, right? Right?


	2. Psych Case

A/N: I miss Leah. I hate myself for killing her. Thanks for the reviews. And it is like Churchill said, "When you're in hell, keep going." So I am going to try to see this thing through.

"Ya listen ta me now, Murph." Connor said, drawing his face close to Murphy's. "Ya did everything ya could. Ya let it go. Ya let it go now."

"I lost track of time, Conn." He whispered, tears starting to fall. "I should've—"

"Look, if ye break down in here, they're gonna commit ya. Do ya hear me? The only reason yer not in some fuckin' padded cell is because of all yer teachers. Now, ya dry yer tears. I don't want ta see them. I'm takin' ya home, ya hear me? No one's takin' ya away from me too."

Murph looked into his twin's eyes, and Connor looked away quickly then stood up and walked over to the other side of the room.

"I'm sorry, Murph." He said in a quiet voice, his back to Murphy. "This is the best I can give ya right now."

It was mostly shock that stopped Murphy's tears. Connor was back. Not back from Baltimore. No, Connor was back from childhood. Murphy realized that his brother was lying dead next to his wife and child on a cold slab in a morgue.

He knew how Connor could drive. He knew how Connor could unlock the door. He knew how Connor could walk inside the house. He knew how Connor could help plan a memorial service with his in-laws. He knew how Connor put his arm around all the people who had loved her and cried.

And Murphy felt responsible for all of it.

The morning after the memorial service, Clarissa entered Murph's room where he had not slept.

"I'm ready for a walk and some coffee, sweetheart." She said softly, straightening his hair, as Leah always straightened Connor's. He looked at her face and saw a shadow of Leah's.

"When I look at you, I see her."

"That's a lovely thing to say."

"He won't let us grieve." he whispered and he wasn't sure if he was talking to Leah or Clarissa or himself or all of them.

"You are your own man, Murphy. Now shall we go, just like we always do? I have so missed you, dear." She said, pulling a fresh shirt from his dresser drawer, the dresser that had belonged to her great aunt Lydia.

Clarissa told Murphy that he had to get Connor some professional help. She and Dr. Winslow wanted them to pack up and come to Charleston after Graduation the following week. After his final examinations earlier in the spring, he had ended up second in his class. Helen had told him he would have been first if he hadn't spent so much time in the hospital doing extraneous pet volunteer projects during exams. However, she added, she would not have taken him if he had not participated in those volunteer projects.

"I'm not worried about you, Murph darling. You won't ignore the pain. He can't even look at a photo of her. He's so much like her father. When Jack's mother died, he wouldn't talk about her. He forgot to celebrate the life she had lived. I believe Connor is about to travel down that road. He has started packing all her things. And why, tell me, Murphy, does he spend the entire night outside in that one corner of the yard?"

"Because it's probably the only place he can find where there's not a memory of her in it. It's a hiding place for him, a place that belongs only ta him."

"Our Connor's in trouble."

"Aye, Clarissa, he is." Murph agreed.

"Murph, will you talk to me about her?"

"Of course."

"About that night?"

"I owe it ta ye, don't I?"

"You owe me nothing, sweetheart. But if you would tell me about her, what she looked like the last time you saw her. I couldn't believe they wouldn't let us see her. We've never heard of such."

Murphy cleared his throat. "Connor didn't want ya ta see her. He thought it would kill ya. And it might've. So he wouldn't sign the papers allowing her body ta be viewed."

Leah's mother nodded, frowning. "He did what he thought was right, I suppose. But we wanted to see her."

"I should've made him understand that you and Jack understand the body. I should've made him—"

"No, dear. You have been through enough without fighting your brother. He had his reasons. He thought he was protecting us, I'm sure. Please, Murphy, tell me how she was, if you can."

"All I can say, Clarissa, is that despite the fact that she was already starting to show bruises, she looked like yer Leah. Our Leah. She looked young, beautiful and like she didn't belong there. She didn't belong there. She didn't have to be there."

"No one blames you, Murphy." Clarissa squeezed his hand.

"He does."

"No, he doesn't, sweetheart. He blames himself." She said, and Murphy looked up at her and realized no truer words had ever been spoken.

"If I had just called—"

"And do you think Leah would have listened to you? Now really?" Clarissa asked.

Murphy stared at her.

"Do you?"

"No." he answered.

"I know you loved her, Murphy. Not many would have been as generous as you but you were, because you loved her. She absolutely adored you, you know. You were the brother she always wished for. She would say to me, 'Mama, what can we do about Murph? He's so intricate. Who is going to unravel him? Who will be special enough?' She never could abide it when you were unhappy, so what makes you think she would be able to if she thought you were unhappy now?"

He shook his head, thinking of how Leah always had cheered him up, how she had an uncanny ability to know when he was in need of cheering. He felt a trace of a smile come to his lips. It vanished as quickly as it had come.

"One day, Murphy, this will all be resolved. It will not be easy. But you have to confront the pain head on, no matter what your brother says, and you must learn to live again. My baby would not have it any other way, would she? So honor her by celebrating her life."

"He's hurting." Murph said absently.

"He's suppressing. One day it will come out. And it won't be healthy, dear. You watch out for your brother. He is going to need you." She said. "And when you need me, I will be there for you. Don't ever forget. Wherever life takes you, I am here for you, Murphy."

Connor and The Winslows insisted that he attend Graduation. It was hard to sit there amidst his classmates, who obviously knew what had happened and really did not know what to say to him. Half of them thought he was a psych case waiting to happen, he guessed, as he walked across the stage to receive his diploma and his honors. It was hard to look out and not see her sitting next to Connor and her parents, but he had on a crisply ironed white oxford shirt with the scent of green tea linen water in it and he thought of an old Irish blessing:

Do not stand at my grave and weep.  
I am not there... I do not sleep.  
I am the thousand winds that blow...  
I am the diamond glints on snow...  
I am the sunlight on ripened grain...  
I am the gentle autumn rain.  
When you waken in the morning's hush,  
I am the swift uplifting rush  
Of gentle birds in circling flight...  
I am the soft star that shines at night.  
Do not stand at my grave and cry—  
I am not there... I did not die...


	3. Ashes

A/N: No peace for the wicked, and I guess that's me. It really was unintentional though. This story could drive someone to drink…

The morning that the Winslows were to return to Charleston, Connor was nowhere to be found. His cell phone was sitting on the kitchen table next to the keys to his new car, which had been replaced by the insurance company with a rapidity that no one could believe or really gave a shit about at that point. He had not left a note. He simply was not there but he had left a pile of boxes at the back door. Inside were Leah's clothes, her books, the things that were precious to her. And lying next to those boxes was the urn containing her ashes.

"Well, let's load them in the car." Her father said quietly to her mother, as Murph stared in horror at what his brother had done. "**He** obviously doesn't want them."

"Jack, please." Clarissa said, catching Murph around the waist.

"He put her on the floor. On the floor. He put her on the floor." He heard himself saying, struggling against Clarissa's grip. "Can't be on the floor. Can't."

He dropped to his belly and crawled to the urn, which he grabbed, crossing himself then hugging it tightly to his chest.

He hadn't realized he was screaming until he felt Clarissa's cool fingers on his forehead and he looked up and saw her lips moving.

"Hush now, dear. Murphy?" He heard Clarissa say with clarity and he looked over and saw Leah's father watching him with a familiar look on his face, a look he was certain he himself was quite skilled at giving. It was a look of assessment and diagnosis.

"That settles it. Son, you're coming home with Clarissa and me." Jack Winslow said, squatting in front of him. "We're going to get through this one way or another, but I'm afraid staying here is going to be detrimental to you. Clarissa, let's go pack his things."

"Connor—"

Leah's parents looked at each other.

"Your brother will destroy you if you stay here." Jack said flatly. "He will drag you down into that same goddam hole with him."

"Jack!" Clarissa snapped, putting her arms around Murphy. "Honey, Connor has to help himself. He won't let any of us in."

"I can't leave him."

Leah's father let out a disgusted sigh and slammed his fist down on the washing machine, against which Murphy was leaning against, cradling Leah's urn.

"Jack, go outside. Now." Clarissa commanded angrily.

Leah's father slammed the back door as he exited.

"Honey, Jack's just upset. He's just worried."

"I can't leave Connor, Clarissa." Murph said quietly. "I am so sorry that he put her on the floor. He's not himself."

"Oh, sweetheart, she's not in that urn. Oh, honey, those are just ashes, just dust." She told him gently. "Now, we have to leave, Murphy. And we so want you to come with us."

"But you understand, don't you, Clarissa? You understand I can't leave him?"

"Yes, dear. Yes, I understand." She sighed, her eyes welling up. "Now I want you to look in those boxes, Murphy, and take out anything you think should stay here or anything that you want."

With a needle and thread, he clumsily sewed Leah and Connor's wedding rings into the lining of his pea coat. He remembered how neatly Leah had sewn everything. He placed a bundle of dog-eared letters in his backpack. He just couldn't help but believe Connor would want them one day.

Murph saw Connor walking up the street around dusk. He looked pale and thin, a ghost of himself. He carried a bag of what looked like takeout food. Murphy did not meet him at the front door but remained sitting in the kitchen window seat wondering what the fuck he was going to say.

"Murph, ya home?" he heard Connor call, when the door opened.

"In the kitchen, Conn."

Then Connor walked into the kitchen and set the bag on the counter as Murph watched him.

"Ya hungry? I picked up Chinese."

Murphy just nodded, watching his brother, a little afraid. What was he left with? Connor met his eyes and ducked his head.

"How bad was it?"

"They said to tell ya that they love ya." He said, going to his brother's side.

Connor closed his eyes for a moment then let out a deep breath.

"Got ya yer sesame tofu and broccoli." Connor sounded tired, as he pulled containers out of the bag. Murph saw that Connor was crying and was trying to hide it. "And hot and sour soup. Big day tomorrow, Dr. MacManus."

But despite wanting to, Murph knew to embrace his brother would have started a shitstorm out of Connor.

"Thanks, Connor."

"Well, eat up." His twin said with obvious effort, as he slipped out the patio door.

Helen's receptionist, Lorna, told him to have a seat in the waiting room, when he walked in the office the next morning. It should have been his first clue that all was awry.

"Dr. Hurdle will see you in her office now, Mur—I mean, Dr. MacManus."

"Lorna, if you call me Dr. MacManus, I'm not gonna know who yer talkin' ta."

Lorna guided him to Helen's office. He had always had free reign as a rotation student in Helen's work area. Helen was waiting in her office, seated at her desk. He didn't remember ever seeing Helen in her office. Helen Hurdle was constantly on the move, either with patients or analyzing lab data with a cup of coffee in her hand, while walking to teach a class.

"Lorna, please close the door." She said, then to Murphy. "Please have a seat."

This was starting to feel very strange.

"Murphy, you are the most gifted doctor I have seen in years. However, as much as I trust you and want to put you out on the hospital floor, the administration has forbidden it due to your recent trauma until you undergo extensive counseling and therapy." Helen said, her eyes not veering from his. Her gray hair was wound in its neat bun as it always was and her lab coat looked immaculate. But he could see that her hands were shaking and her typically brazen countenance was downcast and defeated.

Murph nodded, taking in what she was saying. He didn't remember having the breakdown at the morgue and in the police car and in the hospital that everyone was whispering about. But he guessed it really didn't matter.

"I can have you evaluate patient charts in the morning then you will see Dan Miller in the afternoon until Dan thinks you are ready—oh, hell, Murphy, this is so goddam ridiculous! The bastards sprung this on me yesterday in a faculty meeting. I can't do a goddam thing."

"It's not yer fault, Helen." He said quietly.

"Now, Murphy, I've arranged for a residency for you in Rochester at Mayo. Of course, you know who Alan Granger is. He's the foremost gerontologist in the world. I spoke with him yesterday and he'd like for you to start in two weeks."

"What?!?"

"A move would be the best thing for you. And working with Alan at Mayo will prepare you for an incredibly influential career. Alan is brilliant. It's a fabulous opportunity."

"Me brother—"

"Yes, your brother?"

"I can't leave me brother."

"Murphy, the only person in the world you can save is yourself. Take a few days to consider this." She said firmly.

"Thank ya fer everything, Helen." He said, standing and extending his hand.

"Murphy, please don't throw your life away." She answered, taking his hand in both of hers. "You are someone capable of reaching so many. You have the ability to do so many great things on such a grand scale. Please, Murphy."

He didn't know where he was going but it wouldn't be to Rochester, Minnesota to the Mayo Clinic. He guessed it showed on his face.

"I have something for you. Don't ask me how I got it. But I think it's something you might want." She said, handing him a floppy disk.

"What is this, Helen?"

"DNA results. The police don't have these. They were re-run off the samples. The SSRs at the crime lab amplified poorly and resolved poorly, so that is probably why there were no hits. You've got seven different perpetrators here."

He met her eyes which were glowing now. "My sister was murdered ten years ago. They never caught the man who did it."

"I'm so sorry, Helen."

"I get the feeling I won't see you for a long time, Murphy."

He shrugged, trying to smile. "Yer an incredible teacher, Helen. And thank ya for everything ye've done for me."

"You're not going to Rochester, are you?"

"I can't."

"I knew before I told you. God damn the evil this world! God damn those bastards!" She said, pulling a canvas bag from beneath her desk. "Antibiotics. And diazepam if you can't sleep or if you start to have panic attacks. Zoloft for post traumatic stress disorder. There's enough for both you and your brother for about a year."

"Did ya rob the pharmacy?"

"Tell me the dosage."

"Five milligrams diazepam twice a day. Initial dose of twenty-five milligrams Zoloft for one week then double to a maintenance of fifty unless symptoms persist after two weeks at maintenance dose then double to one hundred." He answered perfunctorily.

"I was so fortunate that you wanted to stay in Boston. I had great plans for you, Murphy MacManus." Helen sighed. "Now I want you to promise me something."

"What is it?"

"That if you ever need my help, you will ask for it." She said sternly, then added. "I can be an extra set of hands."

He would later ponder her comment in his many moments of confusion, as he revisited moments and conversations in his life, trying to string them together to make any sense of them and how all the events had added up to the present.

"Murphy, one last thing, before you leave. It was what my grandmother said to my sister and me every night before we went to sleep. I imagine you know it well."

May the road rise up to meet you.  
May the wind always be at your back.  
May the sun shine warm upon your face,  
and rains fall soft upon your fields.  
And until we meet again,  
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.


	4. Housekeeping

A/N: Cigarettes, tattoos, and guns coming soon! Wish I could say it was creamy breasts and Audrey Hepburn caliber shoulders…

"Ye awake?"

Connor stepped inside Murph's bedroom. It was about three in the morning, and Murph was wide awake wondering what he was going to do with his brother much less with himself.

"Yeah." He said, lifting up the covers. Connor slid in next to him. He smelled like the fescue lawn, the American elms, the ligularias, the hostas, the astilbes, the heucheras, the fritillarias. In short, he smelled like her garden. Of course, Connor had been sitting by the air conditioner compressor but the smell of her garden was on him. Murph breathed deeply and saw her in her wide-brimmed garden hat, cutting tulips and roses and greenery as he followed her with a bucket of water so she could arrange the flowers, while he looked on amazed that flowers could look so pretty in a vase. He often found a flower in a single bud vase on his desk in his cubicle when he would return from a break at the hospital.

"I can't stay here anymore, Murph."

"I know, Conn."

"I can't go back ta work at the firm."

"I can't go back ta the hospital."

"But yer residency?"

"Fuck me residency." He hadn't told Connor. About the hospital or about the possibility of going to Mayo. Man, a residency at the Mayo Clinic.

"I want ta leave."

"Where do ya want us ta go, Connor?"

"Listen to me. Ye've got ta do yer job. Yer the best they've ever seen. I heard 'em sayin' it that night. I heard 'em. Ye've got ta do what ye were made ta do, Murph. Yer professors know it. I know it."

"Connor, yer all I've got. I'm goin' with ya wherever ya go."

"I don't think ya want ta go where I'm going."

"Where's that?"

"Somewhere ugly, somewhere nothin' comes easy, where fightin' is second nature. Somewhere I can blend in with our own and learn ta use my fists rather than my fuckin' brain." Connor's voice was a snarl. "I'm gonna find them if it's the last thing I do."

"I'm with ya."

They started arguing the next morning when Connor wanted to just leave the house. Just put yer shite in a duffle and let's get the fuck out.

"No, Connor. Think about what yer doin'. The Winslows put a shitload of money in this house. If ye just walk away, the bank takes the house. Ye can't do that ta them."

Connor glared at him.

"We're not leavin' like this. Like fuckin' thieves in the night. Like fuckin' cowards." Murph said evenly. This was something he would not agree to.

"Then ye keep tha' house, Murph. Ye stay here. Fuck ya then."

"Yer not listenin', Connor. Please listen ta me. Ya lost yer wife and yer baby. Her parents lost their baby too. She was their life, and ya know it. And whether ya want to think about it or not, yer all that's left of her ta them. Ye've got ta be respectful of that. Those people love ya. They love ya like their own child. They love us both more than Ma ever thought of."

"Murph, stop." Connor warned, his eyes narrowing. But Murph continued, prepared for whatever ugliness that was going to erupt.

"No parent should have ta bury a child, brother. You loved her, Connor, but she was their child. They loved her from tha moment they knew she existed. Neither one of us can begin ta understand how it feels ta lose somethin' ya loved and nurtured with every thought of yer being for twenty-six years."

"Don't ya even try ta talk ta me about losin' somethin'!"

Connor was on him in an instant. He had expected it. He expected to be beaten bloody but didn't really care, as long as he could draw some sort of acknowledgment of the truth out of Connor.

"Yer not the only one who lost her, ya bastard! I loved her too. Just as much as ye did. But ya had her. She loved ya the way I wanted her ta love me. And ya had that fer eight years. Eight years. Why can't ya be thankful fer what ya had? Ya lived what I dreamed of." Murph hollered at Connor, who was pounding the crap out of him. The blows ceased. "So ya can hit me all ye want. Ye can direct yer anger at me all ye want, but yer not gonna take it out on her family."

"Christ, Murph." Connor groaned, covering his face with his hands.

"I promise we will get those bastards or die tryin' but we're not goin' ta make her family suffer more than they already have. We can't leave a mess fer someone else, especially, Jack and Clarissa, ta clean up."

"What am I supposed ta do?"

Murphy heard Connor was crying and struggling to breathe. He ran to the medicine bag Helen had given him and instructed Connor to take the diazepam.

"What yer gonna do, brother, is we're gonna go down ta the title office and ye'll sign this house over ta the Winslows. And they'll decide what ta do with it." Murphy said. "Then we'll call them and tell them."

"I can't talk ta them."

"I'll talk ta them, Connor. It's fine." Murph said, seeing that Connor was watching him intently. "What?"

"Yer bleedin'."

"It's okay fer now. Listen, Conn. There's some other things we have ta do before we leave this place. Ya can help if ya want or ya can go wherever it is ya go all day, but all the stuff in the refrigerator and the pantry has ta be cleaned out. Anything we don't take with us that belongs ta us, we're donating ta the shelter. We can't leave a mess for the Winslows ta clean up."

Connor grimaced and bit his fist. "I don't think ya understand, Murph. I can't stay in this place another fuckin' minute."

"Believe me, Connor. I understand. I promise it'll be over soon, but we've got ta be respectful of her, of her family. How would ya want Ma treated?"

"Christ, Murph."

"Just go pack yer duffle, Connor. And then we'll go ta the title office."

Murphy made the phone call to the title office and asked for papers to be drawn up immediately for a transfer of title for the house. He knew the window of opportunity was limited to convince Connor to take these necessary steps, so when talking to the woman at the title office, he explained that—well, the truth—that the strain of his wife's murder had caused his brother to want to leave the house immediately. The woman was in tears by the end of the conversation and promised that the papers would be ready when they arrived and Connor would just have to sign them and would be able to leave without event.

His call to the Winslows was painful. Clarissa said she was not surprised. She said she would have a cashiers check sent to the title company for the transfer that afternoon and make sure everything was in order. Did he want them to keep the house? No, Clarissa, 'tis only a shell now of a life we once knew. Perhaps another family will enjoy it, she said, trying to sound cheerful. I hope so, he agreed, attempting to drink in every note of her voice, so he could remember it when he needed to.

"Just go, Connor. Just go. I'll take care of it. Just come back before nightfall." Murphy said, as he began filling a trash bag with perishable items from their refrigerator and Connor looked on desperately.

"I—"

"Just go."

"I'll be at tha church." He said, his head ducked. "It's where I go. It's where I hide."

Murphy nodded without looking at his brother then turned back to the well-stocked refrigerator.

Then all of a sudden Connor came close to him and put his arms around him. "Thank ye, Murph."

Then he hurried out of the kitchen and out of the house.


	5. Southie

A/N: Thanks to all of you who have been reading and especially to those of you who have been reviewing. This story is really difficult. I loved my fluffy, happy Connor from my first story and miss him very much. And my poor Murph, who loves hugs more than anything in the world, needs one more than anything right now. Tissues, anyone?

We look fresh off the fucking boat, Murph thought, when they stepped out of the Red Line station in South Boston, carrying only their duffles. Like fucking idiots, he thought, thinking of the cash in Connor's pocket from selling the car and then cashing the check. You could practically see the bulge of sixteen thousand dollars in the pocket of his jeans. Fucking night time in Southie, as they called it on the news, which was full of stories about murders, rapes and robberies. We're going to get fucking robbed, our throats slit and—

"There. We go in there." Connor said, pointing to a church down the street.

Murph saw his brother's set jaw, his eyes staring only at the Virgin Mary illuminated in blue light in an alcove on the impedimentum of the church. Murph followed and hoped they made inside the doors of the church before any of the street people he was certain were starting at them lunged.

"Like that." Connor told the tattoo artist, pointing to the Virgin Mary at the church across the church, visible out the window.

"Religious, are ya?" The guy said, pulling out a piece of paper and taking a look out the window.

"Aye."

"And my brother'll be wantin' the same."

"Conn, are ye sure ye want ta do this?" Murph asked, looking away from all the tattoo designs on the wall to his brother.

"I always wanted a tattoo."

The guy's rendition of the Blessed Virgin didn't look anything like the one at the church but apparently it was good enough for Connor. All Murph could think watching Connor as the guy marked his neck was that Leah would have been having a fit, that Connor was having the neck his wife had so loved to kiss inked. Connor showed no sign of feeling any pain as the needles bore into him, delivering the ink. Murphy was certain no one would ever kiss that neck ever again.

The tattoo hurt like a mother fucker. He had never sweated so much in his life. He wanted to scream. And the fucking thing could have been drawn better by a five year old. The Holy Mother looked more like a cartoon character that had just had a big idea with a light bulb over its head. What the fuck? A blue Virgin Mary on their necks that hurt like a bitch.

Connor peeled two one hundred dollar bills out of the massive stack when Murph's tattoo was complete.

"So we're new here. Where should we stay without gettin' ourselves killed?" Connor asked, tossing another hundred on the counter.

"That's all your gear?" the guy nodded to their duffles.

He and Murph nodded.

"Walk two blocks east down the next street over to The Lipton Hotel. It's kinda shitty but no one'll steal from ya. If you're religious, go back to the church you came from tonight. The father there will set you up with jobs. You're Irish. You'll be fine in Southie."

The hotel was disgusting even by his standards, Murph thought, so he wondered what Connor must be thinking. Murph had always been the slob with Connor constantly bitching at him to clean shit up, Connor who couldn't stand dirt or disorder. Well, there was certainly dirt and disorder in this place. Everything smelled like cigarettes. Dead insects in the corners. Used syringe next to one of the beds. Long dark hair on the back of the bathroom door. Shit-stained toilet. Mildewed grout in the shower.

Needless to say, the bed was not Great Aunt Lydia's four post bed with the eight million thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. In fact, there were crumbs of what were probably Doritos in between the sheets, so Murph slept or attempted to sleep under his pea coat with his favorite t-shirt rolled up as a pillow, because there was no way in fucking hell he was putting his head on that pillow with the big suspicious yellow stain on it. A fucking syringe. A fucking syringe. They had to get out of here tomorrow.

And yet Connor lay in the adjacent bed sleeping. Murph could tell he was asleep by the sound of his breathing. Fucking heroin junkies in this place. Hookers, probably. They'd seen plenty of them since getting off the red line.

Murph had seen plenty of things in his life. He had helped Sarah distribute condoms to prostitutes in India. He had been solicited by some of them. He had been offered drugs in Costa Rica. Yes, he had seen plenty of things in his life. Yet he had felt distanced from it all. Lying in this awful hotel bed with his neck smarting from the ugly ass tattoo, he realized he was now part of that world. I won't be their doctor, he thought, shivering at the thought of the retrovirus that likely resided inside that syringe he had discarded in the only thing it could be lodged in where it could not come loose: a bar of soap. I'll be their prey.


	6. Conversation

"Ye didn't sleep a wink."

Connor's voice interrupted his thoughts. Murph turned and looked at his brother.

"I warned ya."

"Fuck ye, Connor." He said weakly.

"Yer not strong enough fer this."

"And ye are? Don't start this conversation with me, brother. I dare say ya can't finish it." Murph answered, feeling his blood rise.

"Just go back ta Harvard, Murph. It's where ya belong."

Murph began shaking his head. Fuck it. "Ya think ye can kill someone, Connor? All ye know is Loss. Ye don't know Death. Ya stayed closed up in an office and classrooms yer whole life. Ye never smelled the stink of tha bodies. Ye never had anyone beg ya ta end their life. Ye never saw someone commit suicide. Ye never saw someone bleed out on a table. Ye never saw someone seize and go violently. And ye've never cut a body either. Ye've never taken a scalpel and opened one up and cut it up piece by piece. That's been my life, some of that at Harvard, some of it at Duke, some in Costa Rica, some in India. But I never shut me eyes to it like ye did. So maybe I don't want ta sleep in a room filled with needles used by junkies. And I'm not afraid to say I miss her like hell and the life I led a month ago. But don't ya dare try ta tell me I'm not strong enough for this. Ye can't do this without me, Connor. Ye'll get yerself caught. Ye'll never find them. And if ya do, they'll take ya, because unlike ye, they do know Death."

He could see that his brother was filled with fury but also that he knew that Murphy was right.

"Let's get the fuck out of here and go ta the church." Connor said quietly.


	7. Stench

A/N: And now we find out why they start smoking…

The church was empty when they entered and knelt next to one another and began their reciting the rosary in unison. Then they said their family prayer.

And Shepherds we shall be.  
For Thee, my Lord, for Thee.  
Power hath descended forth from Thy hand,  
That our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command.  
So we shall flow a river forth to Thee  
And teeming with souls shall it ever be.  
_In Nomini Patri, Et Fili, Et Spiritu Sancti._  
Amen.

"That's one I haven't heard before. Lovely words." A quiet voice from behind filled Murph's ears.

Both he and Connor turned around simultaneously to face the man who wore a priest's uniform of black trousers, black shirt and white collar. He had a large belly and a wide smile. "Welcome. I'm John O'Meara."

As with most parish churches in poorer neighborhoods, volunteerism was always appreciated. This church was no different. Upon discovery that the MacManus brothers were handy, Father O'Meara was happy to put them to work in the community garden, repairing rotten wood in the rectory, and church kitchen. Well, Murphy weeded the garden. Connor worked in the kitchen. And the two of them worked on the rectory. The Father directed them to a low cost apartment building at the end of the first day where they would remain.

Their apartment was depressing, in a word. However, it was theirs and there were no syringes, used condoms or any health hazards in it. They found furniture at a thrift shop. This included two mattresses, a table and chairs, an absolutely foul sofa and a punching bag. Connor had taken a few kickboxing classes at the gym during his lunch hour, so he taught Murphy what he remembered. Murph took to the punching bag immediately, hitting and hitting and hitting it every night, until Connor roused out of diazepam induced sleep told him to knock it off. Connor took to the diazepam immediately.

"Don't you guys need jobs? Or are you independently wealthy?" Father O'Meara asked Murphy one day, when he was harvesting some yellow squash.

Murphy had told Connor that if they were going to slaughter, they would be shepherds, as was their duty taught to them since childhood, and they must serve the community. If their money ran out before they had completed their mission, he instructed his brother, they would find something.

"Definitely not independently wealthy, sir." Murph answered.

"Do you have a green card?"

Murph looked down. His student visa had expired. His visa was dependent on his residency at the hospital. So in exactly twenty-three days, Murphy MacManus would be an illegal alien. Connor, on the other hand, by marrying Leah, had dual citizenship in the US.

"We're taking advantage of you boys, just feeding you every day and nothing else. Go to Noland's. They'll hire you."

"Noland's?"

"The meat-packing plant down by the docks."

He had a feeling Connor was not going to like this.

The smell was worse than a morgue. At least in a morgue, there was no smell of offal, fresh blood and aging meat. Morgues were actually kept extremely clean and at a low temperature. Murph knew that if you would hire illegal labor, then you probably were not up to other standards either. Murph saw immediately that Connor was about to puke when the supervisor led them into the room where they would be working and the smell hit Connor. Then he watched Connor set eyes for the first time on the piles of beef tongues over here, stacks of beef livers over there, racks of beef hearts in front of him, carts of tripe behind him and god knows what on the conveyer belt. Breathe through yer mouth, Murph whispered to Connor, shallow breaths.

Nice, Murph thought, cotton gloves to work on all different types of meat at all different stages of decomposition. That's what aging of beef was, after all, rotting. Really classy. No nitrile gloves. No changing of gloves. He guessed he was the only person in the place that knew what a prion was. And he was pretty certain that the gloves were not disposed of much less autoclaved every evening after work.

Jesus, he thought, Connor doesn't even know how disgusting this place really is. Leah would. Leah would know.

"Ye alright, Connor?" he asked Connor, as they left Noland's the first day.

"Murph, does the smell come off?"

Connor's voice sounded a little less angry and harsh than it had for the past few weeks.

"What smell?"

"The smell of death. Does it come off?"

"With a shower, aye."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

But Connor kept smelling whatever it was he would associate with death. Murph had known a few people in med school who had been like that, and they had all dealt with it the same way: chain smoking.

Connor had been showering for the past half hour, hollering at Murph he could still smell it, when Murph left the apartment and went down to the corner store to buy lemons, beer and a carton of cigarettes.

"Turn off the fuckin' shower and come here, Connor." He said, when he returned.

"I still smell it."

"Connor, I got stuff ta take the smell away. Turn off the fuckin' shower now."

Connor wrapped a towel around himself and came to the table where Murph was unloading the bag. He cut a lemon in half and handed it to Connor.

"Rub it all over your hands."

"Can't go back there tomorrow."

"Gotta, Connor. Either that or you call your partners at your office. Either or, Connor." Murph said, handing a beer to his brother, who was working the lemon over his hands.

"Fuck ye, Murph. Don't ya try ta tell me what ta do."

"Scared of cow blood and guts and ye think ya can take on evil men? Ye'll be fuckin' useless if ye can't get past that." Murph said spitefully, pulling the carton of cigarettes finally from the bag and tearing into it. "This will take the rest of the stink off for ya, always worked for the sheltered pricks in med school."

Connor shook his head.

"Suit yerself." Murph said, lighting a cigarette for himself, willing himself not to choke on it and moving to his mattress with a beer in hand.

Within a minute, he heard the click of the lighter from the table. Throughout the evening, he heard the lighter click over and over. At some point, Connor came and sat next to him on his mattress.

"Sorry, Murph. I'm not meself these days."

"'Tis okay. But Connor, it will get worse before it gets better."

Connor choked on his cigarette, or so Murphy thought at first. But he was really laughing. And when he realized Connor was laughing, he also realized how much he had missed that sound.

"How much worse can it get? We're livin' in a shithole, workin' in a shithole, drinkin' shitty skunk beer, smokin' cigarettes and going ta wake up ta the whole fuckin' thing tomorrow."

Murph shared the laugh with his brother but he knew it could get much, much worse.


	8. Calls

Wages were good, Murph thought, as he lit a cigarette. They weren't great wages but it was better than being a medical student where you received no salary at all. He had been looking forward to his residency where he would be able to have his own paycheck and not have to depend on the check Ma sent monthly to him. Odd, the check had been generous. Where the hell had Ma gotten the money?

Now they had money to go to the pub down the street, where they could drink decent beer and have a laugh after work. Now they had a phone. Because there were some calls he had to make.

Diazepam also known as valium is a drug enhanced by alcohol, as are all of the drugs in the benzodiazepine family of medications. When they would come home from McGinty's and Connor would reach for the bottle of diazepam, Murphy would wait for an hour before he set about doing the things he needed to do without questioning or arguing from Connor. Connor would simply drift into a deeper sleep than usual.

Nearly two months had passed and Connor still had not contacted their mother about Leah's death. Ma had no way of contacting them and as little as Murphy wanted to talk to his mother, he knew that it had to be done.

"Mother."

"What in Christ's name are ya doin' callin' at this hour, ya no good—"

"Mother."

"I've tried ta call ya eight dozen times and yer phone's been disconnected. What the hell kind of trouble are ye, yer no good brother and that nasty bitch inta—"

"Mother! Ye shut it, right now."

"Murphy MacManus, may yer tongue fall out fer speaking ta yer Ma that way, ya ingrate."  
"I'll not hear ye speak ill of tha dead, woman!"

"What did ya say?"

Ma finally shut up long enough to listen.

"What are ya plannin' ta do, Murphy MacManus?"

"Kill every last one of them."

"Don't let me see yer face until ya do."

He also got in touch with Helen, who said she had no information for him yet. Did he need any money? Did he need medication? She would call him when she knew something.

There was someone else he needed to call, but he didn't, even though he wanted to more than anything in the world. But he knew it was better for Clarissa Winslow to be able to start healing without him reopening those wounds, just because he felt alone, miserable and wanted to hear her voice.

"Taking separate showers is a waste of water." He told her, once the shower stall had been set. It wasn't really in keeping with the design of the house but the master bath was huge and they had kept the claw-foot tub and the original sink. And taking separate showers really was a waste of water.

Leah raised her brow at him in the mirror, as she brushed her teeth, which she always did before she showered.

"I'm serious." He said, slipping in behind her and nuzzling the strap of her camisole she had put on just a few minutes ago along with the pajama pants. They never slept in anything. Well, if they went to bed wearing something, it always got tossed out of the bed or lost under the covers.

She rinsed her mouth then laughed aloud.

"What?" he asked, pulling her to him.

"Do you realize how much the water bill will go up if we start showering together, you nutjob?" she chuckled, as he began lifting the camisole over her head. "And you know how Murph is about hot water."

"Well, it seemed like a good idea."

"It's a very good idea—just not applicable to you, sir." She laughed, slipping out of her pajama pants he begun to slide down and taking off into a run into the bedroom.

"Or ye either!" He fell on top of her on the bed, where she grabbed his nose before kissing his lips. She pinched him lightly a few times, each time catching him off guard, which made her laugh wildly.

"I am tryin' ta make romantic love ta ye, ya lunatic, and ye keep gigglin' and squirmin'. Can't ye behave?" he smirked into her face.

She grinned then began chanting, "Movie sex! Movie sex! Connor wants to have movie sex!"

He groaned, laughing, and buried his face in her chest.

"No, head up, you'll mess up your hair for the screenshot. Let me get my face in profile and drop my eyelids. Okay, queue the romantic interlude music. Alright, I'm ready for my closeup, Mr. DeMille."

"Ye do look beautiful like that, ya crazy woman." He laughed, looking down at her as she posed mockingly.

"I don't believe that's in the script." She chuckled, pulling him to her for a real kiss. No more playful pinches. No more teasing. Just falling into each other, into that union that still in the back of his mind he was surprised he was able to know. Even after all the times they had loved each other, it was always the sweetest surprise to him that Leah wanted him, that Leah loved him and Leah had shared herself with him. 

Murphy knew what would happen next as he ashed into an empty beer bottle in the dark and watched his brother. Connor was patting around on his mattress and shifting toward its edge. He was going to wake up when he fell on the cement floor, then light a cigarette and shiver until daybreak.

Must have been a good dream, Murph thought.


	9. Lawyers, Guns and Money

A/N: The title of the chapter comes from that old Warren Zevon song. May he rest in peace.

"So ya boys don't have a piece fer protection even?" Terry asked in disbelief at the pub one night. "Livin' in that fuckin' tenement ya live in and roamin' the streets like ya do?"

"Figured we could scare 'em off with Connor's ugly mug here." Murph chuckled, smacking his brother on the back of the head playfully. Murph was smiling but he was all ears and all seriousness. He had been waiting for a conversation like this to arise for weeks.

Their new friend Rocco had told them Terry had IRA connections. Yeah, whatever, Rocco. Yer such a fuckin' conspiracy theorist. No, man, I'm serious. My boss says—shut up, Rocco. Maybe Rocco was right for once, ninety percent bullshit, ten percent reliable information. But always good for a laugh. And he always could make Connor laugh, and that was important. Seeing his brother laugh again helped him sleep at night.

"Some of tha scum around this place will peg ye boys as fobs and roll ya in a heartbeat." Terry insisted.

"Well, Terry, 'tis not like I can exactly go get a weapons permit, 'tis it?" Murph laughed, stubbing out his cigarette and signaling Doc to pour him another beer.

"Ye don't need a permit, son. Ya got cash, ye can get what ya want."

"How much cash are we talkin'?"

"Depends on what yer wantin'."

"Is this some shite that's being hunted by tha cops?"

"No, it's clean."

"Probably a good idea ta have somethin'. Impress tha girls anyway, huh?" Murph said with a shrug he hoped looked carefree and slightly stupid. As if on cue, Connor nodded in agreement.

"Good boys."

Thus began their relationship with Terry's brother in law, Seamus. They bought four guns, a couple Beretta 92's and a couple Glock 9 mm weapons. Even though it was nice to see Connor get excited about something, Murph smacked him on the back of the head when he wanted to get a James Bond type Walther PPK. The exchange occurred in the back alley behind McGinty's from the trunk of Seamus' car. Fifteen hundred dollars later, they were flush with guns and ammunition they had no idea how to use. Murph knew what kind of bullets did the most damage to which tissues of the body from his experiences working in the emergency room and reading about trauma wound care. But Ma had sheltered her boys—well, from everything except her.

Neither of them had ever fired a gun.

So over the next few weeks, Murphy and Connor learned how to use a gun. First, Connor took it apart and put it back together then explained to Murph how it worked. He guessed at the velocity and the force with which the bullet would be propelled judging from the barrel diameter. It's a simple machine, Connor said, after a thorough examination of the gun. Don't lose sight of what that simple machine can do, Connor, Murphy warned.

"Hello?" Murph heard Connor say one night when the phone rang. He was in the shower. "Yeah, hang on."

"It's Helen Hurdle." Connor said suspiciously, walking up to him at the shower head, which Murph cut off immediately and ran to the phone without toweling off. "What the fuck?"

"Helen, Murphy here."

Connor had been told that there were only four assailants, as per the official police report. And Murphy intended to keep it that way. He would let Connor help him with four of them but Connor did not need to know that seven men had violated Leah. The other three Murphy would take himself. This evening would be an information gathering expedition. Helen was coming to pick him up.

"Helen wants ta have coffee with me." He told Connor, when he hung up the phone and began dressing.

"How tha fuck did she get tha number?" Connor growled.

"I gave it ta her, ye ass."

"What in bloody fuck fer?"

"She's gonna find Leah's killers, that's why, ya fuckwit. Now, fuck off, and stop askin' me questions."

"But—"

"No, Connor. No questions. We can't put her at any more risk than she's puttin' herself."

"I'm goin' too."

"No, yer stayin' here. And yer gonna start gettin' ready for what we're gonna do. Because it's comin'. It's comin' fast."

Helen drove them to a hospital in Jamaica Plain. He did not ask her questions. She told him that two males had been brought in by ambulance after the police had broken up a gang fight. One was lying in the morgue, the other in a hospital bed. Both men had similar gang-affiliated tattoos and had been wearing similar clothing. The DNA from the corpse did not match any of the suspects in Leah's case. However, the man that was recovering from a gunshot wound and set to be transferred to the county jail the following morning was a different story altogether. His blood was a perfect match.

Helen had brought a lab coat for him to wear.

"Dear god, Murphy, what the hell did you do to your neck?" she demanded, spotting the tattoo.

"Don't ask." He grumbled. "Ugly, isn't it?"

"You shouldn't speak that way about the Holy Mother."

"Yes, Helen."

"Violent or peaceful, Murphy?" Helen asked him in the parking lot, lifting two syringes out of her handbag.

Murphy closed his eyes before he looked at her. "Peaceful, Helen. He knows what he has done. It is not my place to torture."

"I would have chosen violent." Helen said quietly. "I have tried to forgive whatever nameless, faceless bastard that took my sister, but I don't think I ever will. Gretchen was my twin."

"I'm sorry, Helen."

"Let's go."

They were going in to the hospital. He was going to see one of Leah's killers face to face. He was going to examine this man. He was going to show restraint, God grant him the strength. He was going to memorize every detail of this man, because he was the key to the others. Then he was going to administer a fatal dose of morphine.

After this man, only six would remain.

The nurse had apparently been expecting them. She and Helen spoke to one another. Murphy was not introduced.

He was no man. He was a boy, a sixteen year old boy, according to the medical charts, Murphy read outside the door. The chart was marked Battiste, Luis. Luis Battiste, sixteen years old, resident of the Bromley-Heath Housing Project in Jamaica Plain. Luis Battiste, rapist and killer of Leah Winslow MacManus, beloved wife, daughter, friend and he supposed, sister. The chart was chockfull of information, pictures of his injuries, a gunshot wound to his abdomen although no organ damage, and photos of all his tattoos as hospitals had begun taking for the police when patients were known to have gang affiliations. That was when his eyes fell on a photograph of the young man's bicep. There were three names there, tattooed clearly.

"I'll be needing a copy of this chart." He said to Helen.

"It's already taken care of." The nurse said to him, meeting his eyes for the first time. "I've gathered more information as well that you will find helpful. I will give it to Helen once you go in. I am so sorry for your and your brother's loss."

"Thank you." He said quietly, looking from the nurse to Helen questioningly.

"Wear these." The nurse handed him a pair of latex gloves. "It's time. You'll have ten minutes. Don't take all that time."

Murphy took a deep breath and walked into the hospital room, an act he had done hundreds of times. It actually felt good to be in a lab coat, to be in a hospital, to be in this environment where he knew he truly belonged or at least had once. After what he was about to do, he would never belong in a hospital again, he was certain. He was about to cross the line a doctor never crossed. While he knew some hospice doctors let their dying patients have enough pain medication to send them quickly to their destinations upon their wishes, a doctor never killed in cold blood. This was not euthanasia. This was culling from God's flock. This was removing a dangerous individual from the population for his satisfaction. He would lose his right to call himself a doctor.

And he really didn't care.

"Hello there, I'm Dr. MacManus. How're ya feelin' this evenin'?" he asked, surprised at how even his tone was when he glimpsed on the young man lying in the bed.

The kid turned and looked at him. He had a shaved head and angry eyes. Murphy saw no recognition in them at all at the last name. Odd, he thought, when you wear my name on your arm, you bastard.

"Like shit is how I'm feeling. My gut hurts like hell. The fucking pain pump isn't working for shit." The kid growled, then turned his eyes back to the wall.

"Let's take a look at your IV then." Murph said so pleasantly he couldn't believe how his voice sounded. I sounded like a fucking sociopath. "I'm going to lift your sleeve here."

And there it was, Leah MacManus in the middle of two other names.

"IV looks in order, but if yer having pain, I can give ya an injection ta help if ya like." Murph said calmly, so calmly. Now wasn't that strange?

"Fuck yeah."

"In yer vein, then?"

"Fucking IV doesn't work. Takes fucking forever."

"I'll speak ta tha nurse about that." Murph said, pulling the syringe from his pocket, as the kid eagerly extended his arm. "It may prick a bit and sting."

"I like you a lot better than the other docs. They're assholes."

"Oh, really?" Murph chuckled, as he plunged the last of the morphine into the kid's vein. "So, tell me about those tatts on yer arm there. The girls names. Who're they?"

"Girlfriends." The kid's eyelids were beginning to droop a bit.

"I don't think so. Ya see, my name is Murphy MacManus. And ye've got the name of Leah MacManus tattooed on yer arm. And never in yer miserable life were ye her boyfriend. She belonged ta one man her whole life and that was me brother. And ye and yer miserable friends raped and killed her and her baby."

The kid's eyes widened.

"So do all of ye have her name branded on ya?"

"Uh—"

"Ya better tell me or I'll put something in ya to make ya hurt so bad, ye'll beg me ta kill ya."

The kid was a coward and admitted after minimal arguing that yes, all of them had her name tattooed on them. And yes, they all lived in the same housing project. He died before disclosing all the names. But Murphy walked away with three names and the first real feeling of satisfaction he'd had since Leah had died.


	10. Watching, Waiting

A/N: Thanks for reading, everyone. I appreciate the reviews! Thanks for all the encouragement too, Sithy and Betty!

Connor was waiting at the door when he walked inside. He bombarded Murph with questions when all Murph wanted to do was lie down and sleep. Murph had asked Helen to drop him off at the church, where he had spent a few hours in silence following the events at the hospital. Despite the noise in the streets on his subsequent walk to the apartment, he still felt a reasonable tranquility in him. And he was exhausted. If this was what it was going to be like after the killings, he welcomed them for this feeling alone.

"Connor, please. Tomorrow. We'll talk tomorrow." He said, flopping down on his mattress without even taking off his boots.

"No, Murph, ye've got ta talk ta me. Ye've been gone hours." Connor said, moving in next to him on his bed.

He closed his eyes and pulled his brother close to him. "I got three names and where they live. Now let me sleep, Connor."

"But—"

"Please, Connor. I'm so bloody tired. Please."

Connor positioned himself so that he was lying on top of Murph. That had always his trick when they were kids to keep Connor up. At least Connor wasn't sticking his fingers up his nose or giving him wet willies in his ears. God, I must have been an irritating kid, Murph thought.

"Just open yer eyes and tell me one thing and I'll leave ya ta sleep, Murph."

Murph opened his eyes and looked into those of his brother, eyes that were pleading and desperate for an answer.

"Yes, Connor. The answer is yes. One is gone now."

Connor buried his face in Murph's chest and began to cry. Really cry. Murphy did not discourage him. He cried for his wife. He cried for his child. He cried for their shattered lives. He cried for the journey on which they were about to embark. And then he cried because his brother had killed. Hands made to heal, Connor sobbed. At that, Murph told him quietly it was time to be quiet and go to sleep, that they had to sleep now, that they just had to sleep for a bit and not to worry about him. God knows ye've worried enough about me yer whole life.

As he listened to his brother's breathing become even and uniform while Connor lay clinging to his chest, he thought back to what would soon be three years when he had undertaken a rotation in psychiatry. Connor's tears this dark night had been the best thing for him. Grief was the only thing that would heal his brother. He would have to walk through that pain and acknowledge its existence. Murph was not discouraged.

* * *

When Murphy woke the next morning, Connor was sitting at the table reading the file he had brought home from the hospital. Their eyes met. Nothing about the previous night needed to be verbalized.

As they readied themselves for work, Connor was brimming with plans, naturally. And Murph smiled, seeing a visage of the old Connor, imagining him at his desk in all the places they had lived since leaving their childhood home. He saw that the contents of the file were neatly laid about on the table.

Connor's plan was to buy a non-descript junker car, so they could cruise the Bromley-Heath project in Jamaica Plain without standing out. Since it looked like the gang was dealing crack cocaine, they could probably easily identify potential members near pay phones. Murphy remembered the same news story of which Connor was no doubt thinking, the one about how mini-mart owners around Boston did not want payphones in front of their stores because they claimed the phones attracted prostitutes and drug dealers. Then, Connor said, it was a matter of taking out the men, and we've certainly got the firepower and ammunition for it.

"Sounds pretty fuckin' simple, Connor." Murph commented.

Connor nodded.

"'Tis not, Connor. We're not doin' the fuckin' drivebys ya read about and killin' innocents. It's like I told ya last night. We've got ta hunt them."

"None of 'em are innocent, Muph."

"Only the ones that killed her, Connor, will we take. The others are not our business." He replied evenly, somewhat harshly. "We will answer to Him for enough."

Connor threw up his hands. "So what are ya proposin', goin' up to every fuckin' bastard in Jamaica Plain and askin' to see his tattoos?"

"Would ya listen ta yerself? We've got ta do this smart, Connor. Now, Helen's gonna see if she can get addresses and medical records for tha names tha kid gave me. We need pictures. We need ta know their habits. We can't take them when they're in a crowd. We've got ta hunt them down alone, take them down when they're not expectin' it. Don't ya have some things ya want ta say ta them, Connor?"

Connor stared at him indignantly but he knew his words were sinking into his brother's brain.

Murphy told him the first thing they were going to do was go to the kid's funeral. "Don't ya think we'll get a little bit better picture of his friends than after dark 'round phone booths?"

"We're still getting a shite car."

"I think it's a capital idea, Connor." Murph said. "And then afterwards, we go to the church, and yer goin' ta pray for stillness of heart and hand."

Connor glared at him but Murphy touched his shoulder and spoke gently. "When I look at ye, I see a part of meself, Connor, tha better part. Don't lose yerself in this, or else I'm lost too. Ye must ask fer His guidance and His forgiveness fer what we are about ta do."

* * *

It would have been so easy to have taken them out at the funeral three days later, a peaceful Saturday, when the brothers observed ten young men who were likely involved in Leah's rape and homicide. Murphy found himself deeply conflicted, thinking that all ten of them needed to die. No, only the ones that had touched her. But what if the others had watched? What if twenty had watched? What if the whole neighborhood had watched, his conscience whispered, are you going to kill all of them?

Only the ones that touched her.

Connor and Murphy stood side by side in their matching black coats, sunglasses and anonymity at the graveside service. They memorized every last detail of Luis Battiste's closest friends. Surreptitiously, they copied down license plate numbers and noted who left in which vehicle. Then they tailed them to the project that was worse than anything either had ever imagined.

"Worse than Southie." Connor said.

"Connor, quit drivin' so fuckin' close ta them." Murph muttered, trying to absorb every point of reference. "Just act casual. Christ."

"Do ye want ta drive?"

"Do I need ta?"

Connor glared at him but slowed a bit as they watched the cars start parking and the funeral party begin pouring into one tall, red brick building. The building was covered with graffiti and in poor condition. You're not in Cambridge anymore, Dorothy, Murph thought.

"We could take 'em right now, Murph. We could go inta whatever shite apartment they're in and kill 'em right now. And it would be done. Done."

"Pull the car inta that parkin' place there." Murph said calmly.

Connor's eyes danced with frenzy, something in them uncontrolled and something Murph was afraid was uncontrollable. Once Connor killed the engine, Murph smacked him hard across the face with the heel of his hand.

"No innocents, Connor! His mother is in there. Women and children. Have ya lost it, brother? If we go in there now, we kill 'em all. Do ya understand? And we'll not kill innocents. We've enough to answer fer already." Murph yelled at his brother, who stared needles back at him. "Yer gonna pray until ye get yer answers, brother. Yer blind fury will be tha thing that gets ya killed."

"And ya think I really care if I live, Murph?" Connor snarled vindictively. Of course Connor knew this would hurt.

"Well, ya must know I care if ya do, ye fuckwit. But if ya want ta die so much, Connor, why don't ya just kill yerself? Why don't ya just put a bullet in yer brain? The gun's in yer pocket." Murph said just as nastily, drawing his own gun and sticking the damned thing in his mouth. He watched Connor's eyes widen. "Be sure to put the gun in the roof of yer mouth, like so."

Once he removed the gun, he put the gun back in his pocket. "Ya see, Connor, the ones who put it ta their temple survive lots of tha time. It's such an ugly sight in the ER. And ya feel embarrassed fer them, failures at everythin' and even failed at killin' themselves properly. But, brother, don't be such a fuckin' coward that ya would go inta a gunfight, so somebody else would have to commit yer suicide fer ya."

"Bastard."

"Church, Connor. Ask Him for stillness."

* * *

Murphy dropped Connor off at the church and went home to find the phone ringing. It was Helen with news. She had all the names. And she had addresses. Photographs too.

Murphy figured that they had come through a hospital at some point and their criminal records had been attached to their files. He drove to Helen's house to pick up the information.

"How is your brother, Murphy?" Helen asked, as he sat on a plush sofa in a room that was painted a deep green. He had not forgotten what it was like to be in a home, a home that was maintained and smelled like things other than dirty socks, bad plumbing and takeout food. He had forgotten, however, how much he missed walls with color on them. His room in their house had been a sage color Leah found and somehow known he would like right away. He remembered telling her she didn't have to paint his room, that she didn't need to worry about it, and how he came in from working all afternoon with Connor on the fascia boards to find that she and Clarissa had painted his room that color. They had moved all the furniture into place and he couldn't believe that room was going to be his. It was just that nice.

"Somewhat manic." He answered. "We've left the world of health, Helen. There will be no formal grief counselin' fer Connor."

"It never helped me." She remarked sharply. "I wish I could help you kill these men."

"Ye are, Helen. But no disrespect intended, I don't ever want ye ta know what it's like ta take someone's life. It doesn't mix with tha life ye've chosen." He told her.

"Very true, Murphy. Very true."

"I best be goin' now. Thank ya fer the coffee and all the information."

"You'll call when it's finished?"

"Aye."

"You'll call if you need my help?"

"Aye."


	11. Convoluted

A/N: Red blood cell count high after a bit of fluff…Thanks to all of you!

It used to be so easy to be able to fuck a girl, Murph thought. And Shannon in a different time and different place would have been so easy. Not that she was like the girls he had screwed when he was an undergraduate, no. Shannon was a girl he could have loved in a different time and a different place. He liked her because she was slightly shy. He had always had a special place in his heart for the shy ones, whose eyes he would catch at random moments and then see a truly beautiful sight on their faces, a blush in their cheeks. She had a sweet heart. She was not one of the brash, crass girls on the assembly line at the plant that were always telling him and Connor dirty jokes and making catcalls at the brothers. Shannon went about her job of removing beef stomachs with a kind smile on her face if her eyes were met. She was trim, had long honey brown hair tucked under her uniform cap and the most innocent gray blue eyes he had ever seen.

That innocence ignited a fire in him, one Shannon would not understand.

He became fiercely protective of her.

He found himself watching her during breaks when the men who worked in their unit would use the language that was second nature to them but Murph felt was inappropriate in front of Shannon. He found himself seething. Connor naturally picked up on this and teased him.

"Got a bit of a crush, do ya?"

"Screw off, man." Murph said quietly, inhaling his cigarette deeply, his eyes never leaving Shannon, who looked uncomfortable in conversation with some of the other women, who were laughing loudly. He and Connor had stepped over to a quiet corner by themselves as they often did. "She's not like tha rest of that lot."

"Aye, I'll give ya that."

"She seems kinda vulnerable, Connor. Do ya think so too?"

"Aye. Young, tryin' ta get by and decent."

"Decent and this place don't necessarily mix, now do they, brother?" Murph scowled.

Connor nodded in agreement. "Well, we could start walkin' her home at night."

"Ya think it might scare her?" Murph asked.

"Only one way ta find out."

* * *

"I feel like a fuckin' stalker, Connor." Murph said, as they tailed Shannon who walked seemingly completely unaware that they were about one hundred feet behind her in the setting sun of South Boston's streets. Wherever she was headed was shitty. It was all shitty, but she shouldn't be walking alone every night like this.

"If she sees us, we're goin' ta get somethin' ta eat, ya retard." Connor replied. "I don't see why ya don't talk ta her."

"I told ya already it's not like that."

"Yer bein' a retard. She might want a friend too. She's been watchin' ya at church, ya know."

"We just make sure no one hurts her." Murph said.

"Aye, we shall."

Two days later, he and Connor were talking about what they usually talked about when they were walking quietly down the street following Shannon home: their next trip to Jamaica Plain. She had stopped at a corner vendor who had not closed for the day and the twins, deeply entrenched in their conversation about gaining entry into the particular apartment without the target's girlfriend and baby being home, were shocked when they heard her voice.

"Murphy? Connor?"

Murph looked into the eyes that always left him thinking every woman was a potential victim and every man a potential scumbag, and for once in his life, was speechless.

Connor smiled. "Hi, Shannon. Headed home for the evenin', are ya?"

"Yeah." She said quietly, looking away.

"We were gonna get some dinner. Would ya care ta join us?" Connor asked, and Murph pinched him in the side so that Shannon couldn't see.

"Well, umm, I—" she hesitated, looking to Murphy, who knew he had to smile at this moment or else she would feel strange. Nice smile, Murph. Kill Connor later. "Okay, sure."

Connor filled the conversation at dinner in a small Chinese restaurant. Murph had forgotten how good his brother was at that, how good he was with girls, how he really was the more personable of the two of them. Yet he felt Shannon's eyes on him every time he looked down to his food and met them every time he looked back up at her across the table from him. She didn't talk much but Connor managed to get her to tell her story. He really was good at that. She had been working in the meat packing plant for six years now since she finished high school. She lived with her older sister who was a waitress. Murph never recalled seeing the sister at church. Their parents lived a few blocks away. It was a fairly uneventful dinner. She was curious about Ireland, where they were from, what it looked like, why they had come to Boston.

"Ya know, just like everyone else. Ta have a better life." Connor answered and Murph smiled uncomfortably.

They walked her to her door and pretended not to have ever seen the building before. It was a shitty place indeed, maybe shittier than their place.

"Ya know, Shannon, ya shouldn't be walkin' by yerself at night." Murph said, basically the first thing he had said all evening.

"I'm okay. I know my way around. But thanks for your concern." She said softly, meeting his eyes.

"We'll walk ya from now on, okay?" he answered.

"Oh, okay." She said, a little surprised, then gave him a shy smile and practically ran inside her door and was gone.

"She's a sweet one." Connor remarked, as they turned to walk away.

"Aye. We'll do our best ta make sure she stays that way, yes?" he answered.

"We had it pretty good growin' up, didn' we, Murph?" Connor commented, nodding at the surroundings. Sounds of people arguing and children crying filled their ears despite loud music spilling from windows.

"Aye, we did. And it was because of ye, Connor. Remember that. It wasn't because of Ma." Murph said a little bitterly, thinking of how their mother had left them to fend for themselves so often while she had her jollies at the bar then came home three sheets to the wind. That was the mother he remembered, not a mother that gave hugs and kisses and baked sweets. He remembered a mother that forgot to feed her kids.

"We're not gonna be able ta get this one at his flat, are we, Murph?" Connor said, as they fell into step.

"Doesn't look like it. I don't think tha girl ever leaves." He answered, lighting two cigarettes then handing one to Connor.

"He's got ta go out alone at some point and we could get him then." Connor took the cigarette and took a deep drag. "Or else we shoot tha bastard with his friends."

Murph knew that those two friends whose sides Andre Alarcon never seemed to leave were slated to die as well. However, it was a secret he kept from his brother.

"We need ta avoid using tha guns, Connor. We can't draw attention ta ourselves."

"Aye. Bloody hell, Murph. I want him dead. I want him dead now."

"Soon, brother. Soon. And it will be over."

* * *

The first kill had been easy in some ways. They were sitting in the car watching the building when the guy walked out by himself and headed out down the street on foot. Without a word to each other, they got out of the car and followed. They pulled him into an alley where Connor showed him no mercy. That was where the plan went afoul. They had agreed to identify themselves after subduing the target, then Murphy would inject a lethal dose of dilaudid. And it would be finished.

Murphy dragged Connor through the shadows because he was so covered in the blood of that man that had killed Leah and the child they had so wanted, that man who had violated Leah, tortured her. He had never seen Connor in such a state, knife in hand, literally hacking the man to bits as he would a meat carcass that came through the plant. Murphy had pumped the guy full of the drug, the coveted pain killer of junkies world over, before Connor acted. But the guy had screamed. Of course, he screamed.

His brother had cut the tattoo of her name, their name, out of the man's arm. His brother. His Connor. His Connor had sliced the flesh and held it in front of the man's dying eyes as the brachial artery in his arm gushed, an artery Connor had cut. Connor, his Connor, had used a knife on another human being.

Ya have to cut all of the skin, Connor. Ye can't leave a signature. All of it must come off.

The look in his brother's eyes told him he welcomed the task.

"Murph." Connor's voice sounded very weak and tired when he spoke through the darkness that night.

"Aye, Connor?"

"Is that who I am?"

"It's who ya were tonight, brother. We're all a work in progress." Murph answered.

"What happened ta me?"

"Overkill. Ye've been through a traumatic event." He answered with a yawn.

"Will it happen next time?"

"Pray that it won't."


	12. Giveth and Taketh

**A/N: Thanks to all of you who are reading and thanks especially to Sithy and Betty for reviewing and cheering me on. Big hugs to you all, Bel. Oh, by the way, more red blood cells in this one--but by accident.**

"Maybe we should take a day off and see what they do durin' tha day." Connor said, as they walked to church before work. The air was crisp but it still stank. Murph never thought cigarettes would smell better than the air itself.

"And ya think we won't stick out like fuckin' sore thumbs there durin tha day?" he answered grimly, having thought of that idea himself a few weeks before. "Ye've got ta be patient, Connor."

"I just want that fucker dead." His brother said, as they walked up the steps of the church.

* * *

Since they had begun working in the plant, Murph had often wondered how some of the people in their unit held down a job. The bastards were blundering idiots, constantly dropping things, bumping into things and each other and working with extremely sharp blades. The day the accident occurred, he was not surprised. He was merely surprised something like this had not happened sooner. However, once he saw the severity of the injury across the room and the looks of horror on all the faces surrounding him and the inertia that had overtaken the group, he knew he had to act.

That stupid bastard Walt had cut his thigh, Murph presumed with the wall mounted table saw for carcass cutting. How the fucker had managed it, he had not seen but what he did see was the inordinate amount of blood and knew immediately that the femoral artery had been severed.

Someone was screaming for an ambulance but there was not enough time.

"Connor, get tha bleach. And—" he looked around for anything that could clip off the artery, anything. "Whoever's got a bottle of drink in their pocket, bring it out. Has anybody got any dental floss?"

They looked like fucking sheep, except for Connor who brought over a tub of bleach. Murph was cutting away Walt's trousers above the knee.

"I've got to tie off tha femoral artery, Conn. Or else he's gonna bleed out. We've got ta have something clean. Christ, go trip the breaker and rip out some of tha wires. Get me a fucking bottle of whiskey right now. I know you bastards have 'em. I need a clean coat. Now, somebody. Move."

Shannon handed him a clean lab coat. He tied it as tightly as he could above the cut. And someone finally produced a pint bottle of vodka.

"Shannon, can ye hold his head? Conn, hurry. He's bleedin' out here."

Connor ran back with the wires. Murphy removed his gloves and told Connor to douse the wires and his hands with the vodka, then light them.

"Yer hands?"

"Trust me."

"I'm not lightin' yer hands on fire, Murph."

"The fuck yer not. Do it. Then hold him down because he's going to kick and flail like a mother fucker."

Connor sparked the lighter and Murph smacked out the flames instantly before they burned. Then he went to work digging through the severed tissue. Fucking wire to tie off an artery. Walt might not ever recover use of his leg because no one had dental floss or because there was no tubing around. Where the fuck was the ambulance? Why the fuck was this place so fucking filthy? Good Christ, electrical wire to tie off the femoral artery. Who knew what blood was human and what was bovine on this godforsaken floor? What part of hell had they landed in?

"We've got ta bleach everything around him, while we wait for tha ambulance." Murph hollered harshly at the others standing around. "Get me more clean jackets and we'll use them ta clean the area."

The tie-off was holding. Walt would have been dead by the time the ambulance arrived had he not done something, of that Murph was certain. But wire? Wire for fuck's sake.

"Holy shit, who found did this tie-off?" asked one of the paramedics. "Looks like a vascular surgeon did it."

"Make sure they know that he was in a dirty place, eh?" Murph said calmly. "He's lost a lot of blood."

"Did you see that tie-off?" Murph heard the guy ask the other EMT as Walt was wheeled away, now unconscious. He would probably be okay, if the leg didn't get septic from Noland's infectious wonderland.

The plant gave them the rest of the afternoon off. Murphy looked at Connor and saw that Connor wanted to head to Jamaica Plain. He could also see that his brother had not found the stillness he had asked him to seek.

"We go to church this afternoon, Connor. Church."

Shannon slipped into the pew next to them and bowed her head. Murphy was sorry that she had been party to the nightmarish events at the plant earlier in the day and was also sorry that he had walked away without saying anything to her. He had just wanted to get out of there, so people would stop asking him questions about how he had known what to do about Walt's leg. Ya know, ya learn things here and there.

He left Connor and Shannon inside and went to sit on the church playground swing set, which he and Connor had repaired early on in their days in Southie. Shannon soon joined him. He looked up and gave her a nod.

"Hey, Murphy, you know, back there, no one asked you if you were okay. So are you, okay, I mean, after that?" she asked quietly.

"Just fine, but thanks fer askin. How 'bout ye?"

"I was pretty scared." She said. "I thought he was going to die."

Murphy frowned, looking in her eyes, and slung an arm over her shoulder. "Sorry ya had ta see it. And sorry ya had ta help. But ya did a fine job, Shannon. Ye were very brave."

"Will he be okay?" she asked, and he felt her snuggle in closer to him.

"I hope so. It was a fierce cut. But I bet tha doctors'll fix him up." He said as cheerfully as he could, pulling a cigarette from his pocket.

"May I have one?"

"Ye don't smoke, Shannon."

"You do."

"Well, don't go tryin' ta be like me." He said, lighting his cigarette and looking her squarely in the eye.

"Okay."

* * *

"Shannon asked me fer a cigarette while ya were still inside tha church." Murph told Connor, as they walked away from her apartment.

"Yer startin' ta sound more like a mother hen every day, Murph." Connor chuckled, lighting a cigarette for himself.

"Oh, shut it, will ya."

"Well, did ya give her one?"

"Hell no."

"Good man."

"Do ya think we'll get him tonight?"

"Fuck if I know."

It was actually a few nights later. Andre Alarcon decided to take his girlfriend and his child to see a movie. The twins had no idea where the big black BMW was going when the couple got in and began driving. Connor pointed out what Murph had already noticed: no car seat for the toddler.

While Murph would have preferred to have seen Armageddon or Saving Private Ryan and felt like an idiot for requesting tickets for him and Connor to A Bug's Life, he figured this was better viewing material for the child. They sat two rows back from Andre Alarcon and his family in the movie, which actually was humorous had they been in any mood to laugh. They were too intent on the figure that sat within ten feet of them.

And in the middle of the movie, Andre Alarcon got up and entered to the bathroom.

The brothers followed him into the serendipitously empty bathroom, where he stood at the urinal. They moved casually. Murphy pulled the syringe from his pocket. Connor snatched his arms behind his back with ease, as Murphy plunged the dilaudid into his exterior jugular vein in his neck. Andre Alarcon slumped quickly to the floor.

"Do ya know why we're here, Andre Alarcon?" Connor said, a lethal calmness in his voice, to the man staring up at them from the floor.

"Whaddyu shoodinme?" he slurred.

"You have a tattoo, Andre, with his wife's name on it." Murphy said. "And what I shot in ya is a lethal dose of a narcotic that will send ya ta yer death much more gently than ya sent my sister ta hers."

"My liddlegirl's inthere. Don't hurt her."

"Don't ya worry about that, ya piece of shite. We don't prey upon tha innocent. I recommend ya take yer last few moments ta make yer peace with whatever god yer kind prays ta. Ye'll be answering t'im soon." Murph told him, pulling another syringe full of sodium thiopental.

"I donwannadie"

"Neither did my wife or baby, ya bastard. Rot in hell." Connor growled, depressing the plunger of the syringe, once Murph had it inserted in the jugular.

They pushed Andre Alarcon's dying form into a stall and left the bathroom. They returned to the movie and actually enjoyed the remainder of it. Fatigue began to set in but they visited the church before returning home that night.

"They're gone." Connor said in the darkness before they slept.

"Yes. Think of them no more, brother."

"There are more that will do tha same ta others."

"Yes. 'Tis not our business, Connor. 'Tis God's."

"He was scared fer his child."

"He forgot that everyone is someone's child. Ye taught me that. Now sleep, Connor."


	13. Project Complete

**A/N: Thanks everyone who has been reading. I love reviews. This should be the last of the ultra-bloody chapters. I am SO glad.**

Once Connor believed the last of Leah's killers were gone, he began to sleep better, was far more jovial and sometimes reminded Murph of the Connor to whom he had grown so accustomed over the past few years. Connor seemed to enjoy going to the pub after they walked Shannon home. Lately he was always good for a laugh with Rocco and some of the other guys they had met there. It was good to see, Murph thought.

"Head on ta tha pub tonight without me. I've got ta go see Helen. I've been meanin' ta do it for a while and tonight I'm goin ta go see her." Murph told his brother, who studied him dubiously for a moment then shrugged.

"'Right, see ya back at the flat later then." Connor said and headed off in the direction of McGinty's.

It had been that easy, Murph thought, hating to lie to his brother, as he turned to go into the apartment to arm himself. Three men would die tonight. This would be the most dangerous mission of them all. He would be taking on three by himself, but he had been strategic about it. He had chosen the weakest of the pack. Two of them were slinging dope on corners. He figured that he could take them out with relative ease. The other one collected the money from the other two and replenished their supplies at intervals during the night and delivered it to someone higher in the drug dealing hierarchy, he presumed.

Murph knew the money runner's car alarm deactivator unlocked the car doors, when it was clicked. Murph also knew that the guy set out every night a little after midnight to make his runs, so he hid underneath the car, waiting for what seemed like hours on the cold greasy pavement.

But the car chirped soon enough and the asshole was too shocked when he saw Murphy slip into the passenger's seat from out of nowhere and hit him underneath the nose with an upward motion using the butt of his gun. Now, that was a lucky shot, Murph thought, as the bastard collapsed over the steering wheel. After looking around and seeing that no one had spotted the incident, Murph rummaged through the fucker's pockets and found a bag of what he presumed was heroin and a spoon. He spit a few times in the spoon and dumped an assload of the shit in the spoon and used his lighter to liquefy the crap. He pulled a syringe from his pocket and loaded it, then injected it into the fucker's neck. Not knowing how much of that shit it took to kill someone and seeing he hadn't drawn a crowd, he repeated the injection process on the bastard two more times. After the second time, there was no pulse, but he thought a third injection would not be such a bad idea. He figured no one would be coming by with a big dose of Narcan for this piece of shit but you never could be too safe.

Then he exited the vehicle and walked to his own car to end two other lives.

The first of the remaining two was easy. The scumbag was slumped against a wall smoking a cigarette in the shadows. This probably meant he was out of dope and waiting for someone to show who Murphy knew quite well would not be arriving.

"Can I bum a cigarette from ya, mate?" Murph asked politely, amused with the irony as he clutched his gun in his pocket.

"How about ya suck my dick, ya fucking Mick." The bald little bastard replied sourly.

"Aye, ya'd like that, would ya?" Murph chuckled, and the fucker never saw the blow coming to the side of his tattooed head. "But I haven't come fer that. I've come ta collect a debt ya owe m'family."

Murph dragged the guy into a dark corner and injected the dilaudid, before he smacked the guy across the face to wake him for a few moments before his death.

"Ya raped and killed me sister. Ya wear her name on yer arm. Her name was Leah MacManus. Ya killed her baby too and in killing them, ye killed me brother. So ye'll harm no one else now, ya dirty bastard. Ye took our lives away. And fer what?"

"So it's you? You're the one that's been killing us?"

"Aye, ya piece of shite. And there's only one left of ya." Murph said, as he administered the second injection full of sodium thiopental. "And not fer long. He's next."

So there he was, the last one, standing on a fucking street corner, barely twenty years old and peddling drugs, a murderer, a rapist and a father of two. Some role model, Murph thought, as he pulled the car about one hundred feet away from the corner. This area was more active. People were milling about. They would come up to the little shitbird and quickly walk away. That meant he too was out of drugs but shite, why the fuck wouldn't they just go the fuck away? No, buddy, yer not goin' ta get an answer on that number yer dialin', Murph chuckled as he walked up the street slowly, his head down, although watching everything around him intently, his hand on the knife in one pocket and his other hand on the gun in the other.

He did not want to shoot this guy. Or stab him. Very rarely did someone die from a single stab wound. Funny how training to save lives had also taught him so much about ending them, he thought. Fuck, how am I going to get him and get back to Connor?

Ten minutes later, he got his answer.

Murphy MacManus witnessed a driveby shooting from approximately ten yards away. Had he not been further away, lurking in the shadows, praying for a window of opportunity and for errant junkies to stay the fuck away from him, he might not have made it back to the shithole of an apartment he and Connor inhabited in Southie that night.

Some sort of crappy car with the windows blacked out pulled up to the corner and a window rolled down and out blasted gunfire.

There was nothing left for Murphy to do but stop by the church and go home.

The ones who had raped and killed Leah were all dead, every last one of them.

Murphy planned to never return to that shithole of Jamaica Plain.

* * *

"Shannon came by tha pub t'night, Murph. I think she was very disappointed ya weren't there." Connor slurred, when he walked into the apartment. Connor was very drunk and sitting at the table with a glass of cheap whiskey in his hand. He was grinning. "She looked quite pretty. Like she'd done her hair up special and put on makeup and all."

"Shannon doesn't belong at McGinty's." he commented, carefully laying his pea coat on the back of the sofa. He would remove the knife and gun later when Connor was asleep. "Did ya make sure she got home okay, Connor?"

"Aye."

"I don't suppose ya got her drunk, did ya?" he asked knowingly, removing his boots.

"Well, perhaps a wee bit." Connor admitted with the bashful giggle that would always make Leah pounce on him and tickle him until he begged for mercy. Even though Murph didn't think Shannon ought to be cavorting with some of the lowlifes in McGinty's, he figured she was safe with his brother and had the urge to pounce and tickle Connor. But he knew it would remind him of Leah and Connor's light mood would turn somber. Any reminder of Leah always made Connor sad, whereas when he thought of her, it brought some happiness in this desperate place they now inhabited.

"And what kinda lovely songs would ya have happened ta have taught our girl?" Murph chuckled, taking a chair next to him and pouring himself a glass of whiskey and lighting a cigarette.

"The Ave Maria?" Connor grinned innocently.

"Was there any tonsil hockey with any of tha McGinty's crowd?"

"No,**Ma**, I believe she's savin' that honor fer ye."

Murphy groaned. "Ya didn't let Rocco hit on her, did ya?"

"He didn't get anywhere at least. But I have ta hand it ta tha guy fer tryin'." Connor laughed, burying his head in his hands. "Yer right, Murph. Poor Shannon was totally out of place in there—between Doc yellin 'Fuck ass' and Rocco tellin' jokes he thought a girl would think were funny. It was fuckin' hilarious. All we needed was ye there to start yellin' ya wanted some 'Nobgoblin.'"

Murph raised a brow and poured another drink. The cheap whiskey burned his throat but he was glad for it. "No more McGinty's fer Shannon, Connor."

"No, I told her we'd take her somewhere better tomorrow. She said it's her birthday. She wants ta go dancin'." Connor said.

"Nice o' ya ta start bookin' a social calendar fer us, Connor." Murph grumbled, imagining how tomorrow evening would be: Connor sitting at a bar getting drunk and he having to dance to amuse Shannon. Fucking great.

And here he was coming home tonight to tell Connor he thought they might consider packing their shit and moving out of Southie now that their job was finished. But watching his brother sucking on a cigarette, knocking back god knows how much whiskey after whatever he had consumed already at the pub, Murphy knew Connor was perfectly content to remain in South Boston for quite a while.

This meant Murph was going to have to figure out what he was going to do with himself.

**A/N: Hmm, what should Murph do with himself? I guess we all know he has to go dancing tomorrow...**


	14. Turkey

**A/N: How I abuse the poor MacManus boys…Hee hee!**

The parish church had initiated a Thanksgiving dinner program for needy families who would receive all the makings of a Thanksgiving dinner. Naturally, the MacManus brothers had signed up to help. Connor and Murph had been given the task of taking the laden church van and making deliveries to the less than upscale addresses. The ladies back at the church would be filling boxes as quickly as Connor and Murphy could deliver them.

When the boys arrived ready to start making deliveries, the ladies had a special surprise for them.

"Ta amuse tha children, aye?" Murphy heard Connor chuckle. He was talking to Sister Eileen in the foyer, inquiring about the numbers in attendance for her self defense classes that she had started a few weeks before.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Connor grab the pilgrim outfit and began putting it on, leaving something Murph knew would never go on his body.

"Well, don't ya look right smart in yer costume, Connor?" he snickered, stacking boxes on a dolly to take to the van.

"Better put yers on." Connor snickered back, seeming quite satisfied with himself as he fastened the little buckles over his boots.

Murph shook his head, picking up more boxes.

"Mrs. O'Hanis made those for us, Murph."

"Well, no offense ta Mrs. O'Hanis, but fuck that steamin' pile of dogshit." Murph said. "Are ya primp all day or are ya gonna help me with this shite?"

"Lower yer voice and put on tha costume right now. Yer in tha church fer Christ sake."

"Lord's fuckin' name, Connor." He grinned.

"Shut up, Murph. Put on tha costume."

No way in fucking hell.

It was a turkey costume. And there was no fucking way he was putting it on. The back end and body of the thing was all these puffy brown, red, orange and tan pieces made to look like feathers. God only knew what she had stuffed the thing with. And then there were red leggings. They looked like some lady's fucked up pantyhose for Christ sakes. He didn't want to think he was being encouraged to wear some woman's used pantyhose. And then there was the matter of the big red turkey neck with a hole cut out for his face, on top of which sat a giant orange beak, googly eyes and a big floppy red gobbler. Fuck that shit. He didn't care if Mrs. O'Hanis had gone hog wild with her fucking sewing machine and every last piece of fabric on the planet, there was no fucking way in fucking hell he was putting that fucking thing on.

"Ye look like a fuckin' idiot, Connor." He told his brother, who was now dressed in black knickers and a little black smock jacket with a white collar and cuffs and that fucking ridiculous pilgrim hat and little buckles stuck on his work boots. "We're Irish, for fuck's sake, in case yer daft ass forgot."

In a flash, Connor grabbed his earlobe and dragged him out into the churchyard. He heard the church ladies laughing behind them.

"Yer wearin' that costume, Murph. We're goin' ta be takin' food ta needy kids today. Kids that need a good laugh. Now ya straighten yerself up and get back in there and put tha costume on. Mrs. O'Hanis went ta a lot of effort ta make that."

"But I'm always tha one that has ta be tha butt of tha jokes."

"It's 'cos ya do it so well, Murph."

At that, Murph smiled, because Connor reminded him so much of Leah. He had to face the fact that if Leah had been in this hellhole, he would dive on that ridiculous turkey costume in a heartbeat just to make her laugh. He liked himself so much better when Leah was alive. Hearing her laugh—what he wouldn't give to hear that laugh one more time. He supposed other laughter would have to suffice and he was pretty sure the turkey costume would elicit quite a bit.

"Yes, I do, don't I, Connor? Turkeys strut, don't they?"

"Why do I have a feeling that picture will wind up at work?" Murph said, after he and Connor posed for a picture prior to leaving for their first set of deliveries.

"Guys, be careful." Shannon said, walking toward the van, where they were arguing over who got to drive.

"I don't think anyone in their right mind would attack a wild turkey, even if it is just Murph." Connor chuckled, receiving a glare from Murph.

"Are ya having a good birthday so far, Shannon?" he asked gently.

"I am—" she said then burst into giggles. "Murphy, I'm sorry. The costume. It's so funny."

"Glad to be of amusement." He smiled, looking back down to the clipboard with the names and addresses for their first round of deliveries. It was then that he noticed Mrs. O'Hanis making a beeline toward him, her hands full of orange puffy—oh no, no fucking way.

"Murphy, dear, I forgot your feet. Just slip them over your boots and they Velcro around your ankle."

Mrs. O'Hanis looked just like Mrs. Claus on all those Christmas cartoons, all rosy-cheeked, plump and smiley. And she obviously had too much time on her hands to sew costumes for grown men. And here was Mrs. Claus' twin handing him these outrageously large bird feet he was supposed to wear.

"Oh, Mrs. O'Hanis, it's been rainin' so much. I'd hate ta ruin them if I stepped in a puddle."

"Oh no, I thought of that. See I put Fred's old fish gloves on the bottom of them. The color matches perfectly. See." Murph could see she was obviously quite proud of the feet, maybe even more so than the turkey costume, over which the church ladies had been fawning, oohing and ahhing over her sewing abilities.

Okay, fuck it. I'll wear the fucking bird feet, he thought, as someone else snapped yet another picture. He heard Shannon and Connor snickering and the ladies uttering adjectives such as "adorable" and "precious" and "too cute." Just as long as no one from work or the pub saw him, he would be okay.

* * *

Children, Murph learned, had different reactions to six foot tall turkeys. Some laughed at the turkey. Some wanted the turkey to sit down and play video games in apartments that looked like they didn't have money for electricity much less some massive video controller and a giant screen TV. Some screamed in fear and ran from the turkey. One was so afraid of the turkey it pissed itself, barely missing one of those magnificently stitched feet in fact. Another pulled the turkey's "feathers" in an area the turkey did not appreciate, making the turkey let out more of a squawk than a gobble. The Irish turkey was asked various questions about Thanksgiving traditions to which the turkey responded in Gaelic, which the pilgrim explained was the turkey's native language. The turkey was asked if turkeys had sex. Does Rosie Palm count, commented the turkey under his breath, receiving a smack to the head from the pilgrim.

At the end of their deliveries hauling heavy boxes of food up stairs of countless ramshackle tenements in Southie, the turkey was so exhausted that he fell asleep in the front seat of the church van and did not wake up when the pilgrim made one last stop. However, the turkey did wake up when the passenger's door was opened and he heard howling laughter and was handed a glass of Guinness compliments of the house at McGinty's.

Fuck, Murph thought, that picture will wind up at the bar too. But the Guinness did taste good after a day of hauling around food and playing with kids. Shit, they had to go dancing tonight. Dancing? Who would have figured Shannon would want to go dancing?

* * *

Murph missed the claw foot bathtub in his old bathroom. He missed the bath salts that Leah would always make out of the chamomile, lavender and rosemary she grew in the garden. Call us girly and you don't get any, Connor, she would say, as she coated the sea salt with the oil she had prepared from the herbs. All for Murph and me then. I'll just get in the tub with you then, Connor would counter. No, sir, you called me girly, didn't he, Murph? Of course, Connor probably got in the tub with her. Those bath salts were fantastic. Hot water in that tub, a stack of papers to read, a big burgundy glass filled with whatever wine Connor was so good at finding and nowhere to have to be on a Saturday night.

No luxuries for this turkey though. The night promised more humiliation.

**A/N: I just couldn't resist. More silliness for Murph tomorrow. Long day despite it being the weekend. Love to you all.**


	15. Shake Your Bon Bon

**A/N: Remember life is full of joy, pathos and those beloved MacManus lunatics!**

Murph felt his heart rise up in his throat when he saw Connor walk around the corner in their apartment wearing a button down shirt. It was one of his old oxford shirts, one of his shirts he used to wear to work. Was he imagining that he smelled the lavender water? Dear jesus, where had Connor been hiding that shirt? Christ, it was Leah's favorite on him, the blue and white stripes.

"Murph, ya can't just wear that crappy t-shirt. It's her birthday. She's gonna be all dressed up and we're goin' out ta eat."

Murph shrugged, lighting up. "I could stop by Mrs. O'Hanis' and get tha turkey suit back."

"I know ya got yer white shirt. I know it's in the bottom of yer duffle, because when ya think I'm asleep, I've seen ya pull it out and smell it."

Murph shut his eyes and wondered what the fuck had gotten into his brother.

"Wear tha shirt, brother, and let her go. Let her go." Connor said softly.

"Some things are just sacred, Connor."

"They're all dead, Murph. Let her go now."

"She didn't have ta take tha time ta pick out those shirts, find that green tea stuff and iron it in there just fer me. But she did, just fer me. It might have been an everyday thing ta ya. But it meant a lot ta me, the way she understood me, the way I didn't have ta tell her anything. Leah just knew, Connor. That shirt is tha only thing I have that she touched other than ye. Ye can bury me in it, but I'll not wear it any other time. So my crappy t-shirt will just have ta do."

"It wasn't an everyday thing ta me, Murph." Connor said, nodding in understanding. He smiled gently. "I've got another ye can wear. But let's try ta show Shannon a nice birthday, 'kay?"

"Ye miss her, Connor?" he asked and immediately felt stupid, cruel and selfish for asking his brother this question.

"With the entirety of myself, Murph. But she would want us ta be happy." Connor said, his eyes studying Murph's. Connor moved closer and hugged him. "She would want ya ta be happy, Murph. Ye've got ta start tryin'."

"I know, Conn. I know. I just miss her so much. It started out as such a good day. What tha fuck happened? What tha fuck happened ta us, Conn? I'm sorry. Sorry." He said, as he began to sob. "I can't wear me shirt though."

"Ya don't have ta."

"I walked around Southie in a turkey suit today." He laughed, rubbing his face.

"No, ya **strutted** around Southie in a turkey suit today." Connor chuckled, patting him on the back.

Murph was so fucking tired he wanted to just lie down and go to sleep but they had promised Shannon dinner and dancing for her birthday. Actually, they hadn't. Connor had. He had been otherwise occupied. Killing sure took away from a turkey's beauty sleep.

* * *

Connor was right. Shannon was all dressed up for the night on the town. She had done up her hair, and he had to tell his inner Leah to stop snickering about the "mall fox" hairdo. She must have put tremendous effort into getting her hair that **large**. Murph noticed that it did not move when she walked or moved her head. She really didn't need all that blue eyeshadow either or the red lipstick that was even shinier than the paintjobs on some of the drug dealers' cars he had seen in Jamaica Plain. She just didn't look like Shannon.

"Tell her she looks nice, ya idiot." Connor hissed, when Shannon stepped away from the dinner table to go to the restroom.

"I don't want ta encourage that shit. What tha fuck did she do ta her hair?" Murph grumbled, looking at the menu. They had gone to an Italian restaurant. It was the first restaurant they had been in since Cambridge that had a wine list.

"Yer bein' tacky. Stop it." Connor chided, and Murph wanted to grin, because for the second time today Connor had reminded him of Leah. Connor had said "tacky," a word which Leah had used at least thirty times per day.

"She looks better normal."

"Are ye goin' ta be an ass?"

"No, Ma." He snorted. "But I'm not tellin' her she looks nice."

"Bastard."

"Means yer one too."

* * *

"Ye know, Shannon, ya ought ta take night classes at tha community college then transfer ta U Mass and get a degree." Murph said, as they ate dinner. Connor glared at him.

"Night classes?"

"Do ya really want ta work at a meat packin' plant fer tha rest of yer life?" Murphy asked, emptying his wine glass and refilling it from the carafe.

"I hadn't really thought about it."

"It really wouldn't be that difficult. What did ya like ta do in school?"

Connor kicked him under the table.

"I really didn't like school."

"Ye didn't have a subject ya liked best?"

She shook her head. Murph was astounded. Of course, no one liked school, but you had to like something you had learned. Didn't you?

"'Kay—if ya like tha meat industry so much, ya could go ta school in meat science and get a job that would pay ya a whole lot more than yer makin' now and ye'd get ta be around a whole lot nicer people."

"You guys are nice."

"That's nice of ya ta say—" Connor began but Murph cut him off.

"Shannon, there are a tremendous number of educational opportunities fer ya. Scholarships, grant opportunities. It would be simple. Yer an American citizen. Ye can apply fer all kinds of money. With a degree, ye'd be set fer life. Don't ya want somethin' better than Noland's?"

"I never really thought about it. My grades weren't very good in high school."

"How's yer food, Shannon?" Connor asked, giving Murph a warning look.

"It's really good, Connor."

"Ya know, ye could—"

"Hey, Murph, tell Shannon about falling on that kid's toy today." Connor said, angrily enunciating each syllable of each word.

Murph glared at Connor and Connor glared back, so Murph told the story. It was pretty funny, looking back on it, even though the fall hurt like a mother fucker. He had been carrying two boxes of food up the stairs of an apartment building and had been doing an adequate job maneuvering with the giant turkey feet on the narrow steps. However, he had not counted on a toy helicopter from a McDonald's Happy Meal to send him flying up the stairs, since his view of the stairs was more than a little obscured by those fucking turkey feet. He would hand it to Mrs. O'Hanis though, the fish gloves while waterproofing the feet also provided some good traction but not enough when faced with this fucking toy surprise.

Come on, Shannon, he thought, you're supposed to get the joke and give a laugh at how bad it is. No luck.

A door had opened probably due to the noise of cans of green beans and sweet potatoes flying against the walls. He still wondered what the guy with the gun thought when he stepped out holding his miniscule .22 and stepped in a big pile of apple sauce from a jar that had shattered against his door to find a giant turkey sprawled face down in split box of potato flakes. If I look as stupid as I think I do, ya might as well just put me out of me misery, he had told the guy, who just started yelling about stepping in glass and limped back in his door with a bleeding foot.

Shannon asked if they had extra potato flakes and apple sauce to give the family, and Murph smiled. She was certainly kind-hearted.

"So ya told Connor ya wanted ta go dancin' tonight." He said, inching into the topic. Maybe they could convince her to do something else. The only dancing the twins ever had done was in the living room, and Connor had done very little of it. His participation had been primarily scoffing.

"Yeah, my sister's been telling me about this great new club. It's called Tonic. Have you guys been there?"

Fuck, from the way her face lit up at the mention of going dancing, there was no getting out of this. Tonic? Well, the name sounded like you could get something to drink there, Murph thought.

"Nah, we don't hit tha clubs much." Connor said.

"Shannon, we're terrible dancers. We don't want ta embarrass ye in front of yer friends." Murph added hopefully.

"I don't know anyone there."

Murph signaled the waiter that they needed another carafe of wine. He and Connor began gulping it as Shannon ate a tiramisu for dessert. He knew his brother was also afraid to eat anything else to absorb the effects of the alcohol. A fucking dance club.

* * *

Connor handed the cabbie the cash for the cab as Murph surveyed the outside of the club. It looked like a big warehouse. What the fuck? They were going to have to wait in line behind all sorts of fucked up looking people. There seemed to be a preponderance of girls dressed in black crotch length mini skirts, white cotton shirts tied under their black bras and mary jane shoes. And they all had their hair in pigtails with pink puffballs attached to the top of the pigtails. What the fuck? What was with the pink puffballs? Tribbles dyed pink and in girls' hair? And it was fucking thirty degrees maybe outside.

The inside of the place was dark and when they checked their coats in, Shannon also checked in the sweater she had been wearing over her black pants in addition to her sensible wool coat. Even Connor raised a brow at him, when they both got a look at what had been concealed underneath the sweater: a black sequined push-up bra.

Murph just turned and headed to the bar, laughing to himself. He couldn't even be fatherly and suggest she put the top back on or ask if she had forgotten her shirt. No, he and Leah were sitting back in Cambridge on a bench eating lunch in the sun, shamelessly people-watching and Leah was whispering, "Now, there's a peek-a-boob waiting to happen."

The bar was huge, lit up like a big fucking aquarium, with too many fucking girls with pink Tribbles in their hair around it. Peek-a-boobs in waiting everywhere. He was snickering by the time he pushed his way up to the bar. Fuck, he thought, if I have to be in here, I am going to get piss drunk. Breast implants to the left, fucked up rhinoplasty to the right, I will get some Guinness or I will fight, fight, fight.

"Bud, Bud Light, Miller Light, Miller Genuine Draft—"

"No, I heard ye tha first time. So, no Guinness?"

"No, this place rots, dude. Not even any microbrews." The bartender told him apologetically.

"But I'm Irish. I can't drink that shite. And I have to get fuckin' hammered so I can stay in here and not disappoint a very sweet girl on her birthday. Can ya help me?" Murph said, totally perplexed that he was somewhere in Boston that did not have Guinness on tap.

"I can make you a drink."

"Ah, I'll have twenty 'Death in the Afternoon' cocktails then. Tha girl we're with is runnin' around in her fuckin' bra."

"Huh?"

"Ye've never read that book? Hemingway? It's a classic. Don't let tha bull fightin' put ye off. His non-fiction is so bloody brilliant. A Death in the Afternoon cocktail is absinthe and champagne. Fuck it. How about some whiskey? Just as long as it's not blue. All the little girls with the pink Tribbles in their hair are drinkin' things that are blue."

"It's the Blue Lagoon. They think it tastes like a fucking wine cooler."

"Christ. What's yer name?"

"Lance."

"Lance, I'm Murphy. Just make sure I stay full o' drink tonight. Don't know how ya stand this place."

"It pays the bills."

"Fuckin' money. Thanks. Just don't run out of whiskey. Oh, shite. Can ya give me two more whiskeys and one of those fuckin' blue things, please? Actually, if ye'll pour me two shots too." Murph said, pulling a couple hundred dollar bills from his pocket. "Please just make sure I wake up tomorrow and don't remember a fuckin' thing about tonight. I started the day out as in a turkey costume and tha day's only gotten worse."

"I'll do my best as long as you're in a cab."

Murphy, fortified by three shots of whiskey, headed over to Connor and Shannon, who were sitting on a black upholstered cube. They both looked extremely uncomfortable. Christ it was so fucking loud in this place. And there were so many flashing lights, whether it was strobes on the dance floor or from all the almost subliminal images passing by on all the massive wall mounted screens where people were dancing and lip synching. The message Murph took from all of it was Drink More.

"I fought tha good fight fer yer birthday drinks. Cheers ta Shannon on yer birthday. I hope it's everythin' ya want it ta be." Murph raised his glass.

"Thanks, Murphy." She said and took a sip of the blue thing then kissed his cheek.

As Shannon made small talk, Murph noticed something about her. She had excellent musculature. Her abdominal muscles were extremely developed. Interesting, he thought, observing her stomach. She must do sit ups and all that shit. But if she had required a surgery, a surgeon would have appreciated the shape she was in, he thought. Then he noticed her watching him looking at her body.

"So do ya exercise constantly, Shannon? Ya look like ya could break a bottle with your belly." He said jovially, raising a glass to her. Hopefully, she would think he was shit-faced. Connor, on the hand, knew he was not shit-faced and shot him a warning glare.

"I do my best." She said. And Murph was pretty sure she was blushing under all that fucking makeup.

God, this place was distracting. Suddenly he discovered why all the girls were wearing the pink Tribbles in their hair when he looked up at one of the giant TV screens. They were dressed just like some little pouty girl—implants—who kept singing "Hit me one more time." Someone's gonna if ya don't shut up, he thought. Oh dear god, all the Tribble girls were out on the dancefloor, all dancing just like the pouty implant girl.

He was getting another whiskey.

"What tha fuck, Lance?"

"What? The Britneys?" Lance laughed, pouring him two shots.

"The Britneys?"

"Britney Spears. That's the singer's name. It gets worse. More songs. They live for that shit. Here look at this."

Lance lifted a small screen up onto the counter for Murphy to look at and again it was the pouty implant girl, different dance. Murph had an idea.

"So yer gonna play this?"

"Yeah, it'll come up in about thirty minutes. We spread them out, so we can run up their bar tabs."

"Good man. Keep runnin' up mine. Ya don't mind if I keep studyin' this, do ya?"

"Knock yourself out."

The music absolutely sucked ass. The place sucked ass. He had abrasions on his hands from falling that day up those fucking stairs and his chin hurt too because he had hit it on a can of creamed corn when he fell. But he guessed the whiskey was making him laugh. He quizzed Lance periodically about who this person was and that person was on the little video monitor he watched and re-ran particular videos, as Lance refilled his glass.

"What's your name?" a pink Tribble Britney said to him at the bar, as he studied the monitor. Lance elbowed him to get his attention.

"Huh?" he looked up.

"What's your name?"

"Me ma called me 'Yer bugger' til I was four. I guess it stuck." He said, extending his hand with a grin. "Lance, please. Another fer me, and a blue thing for Britney."

"I'm Brandy." The girl said.

"Not Britney?"

"You're really cute."

"I'm fucked up beyond repair. And I'm Irish. I'm good ta have on yer side in a pinch but not tha guy ya want around fer a bit o' fun." He said less than pleasantly. Brandy walked away. "Lance, drinks fer me brother and our friend who's gonna have a peek-a-boob."

"Murphy, you're not going to puke on my bar, are you?"

"Ya don't get many Southie Micks in here, do ya?"

Lance chuckled and handed him the drinks.

Murph recognized the first bars of Britney Spears' "Crazy" when it came over the speakers without even looking up to the screen to verify the video he had watched over and over at the bar. He just grabbed Shannon's hand and figured if he shook his hips, kept both his arms extended and fingers in a perpetual "come hither" motion mixed with a bit of leaning backwards that were sure to make his lumbar-sacral region smart like a bitch tomorrow, it would be perfect. And when in doubt, raise hands above head and pretend to be Cleopatra. Of course, he had to tie the shirt up around his ribs.

"Yer a fuckin' idiot." Connor was laughing when Murph handed him a whiskey. Shannon had gone to the bathroom.

"I thought it was me specialty."

"Aye." Connor smiled, then he frowned. "I never danced with her. She asked me ta take her salsa dancin', ya know. But I wouldn't. I thought I'd look stupid. I should have danced with her. I should have taken her ta that damn international festival she wanted ta go ta every year."

"She was happy with ya, Conn. Ya know that." Murphy told him.

"Ye danced with her. Whenever she wanted ta dance, she knew ye'd dance with her. All across tha livin' room, the kitchen, the garden. Didn't matter if there was music or not. Ye'd indulge her whatever she wanted. Ye didn't care if ya looked stupid. I should have done that. It was so stupid of me. It would have pleased her."

"Dance now then."

"What?"

"Get yer arse up and make a fool of yerself. She'd be proud of ya."

When Shannon returned from the bathroom, Murph was teaching Connor how to shake his bon bon.

"Look at the screen, ye idiot. Ye got ta wiggle yer bum." Murph laughed. "Watch. Like this."

**A/N: Murph is a Trekkie. I just know it. Hence the Tribbles.**


	16. Saturday Night Fever

**A/N: And we continue our evening at the dance club…I apologize to anyone I offend with cracks about Britney Spears' artistic endeavors or fashion choices. Happy almost holidays. Thank you, faithful readers and reviewers. Big hugs to you all, Bel.**

"Cut it out, Murph." Connor laughed, as Murph mastered his imitation of the Latino guy on the video screen above and Shannon looked on laughing too. "Ye look like a fuckin' idiot—what tha fuck?"

Murph interrupted his hip gyrations at his brother when something caught his eye in his peripheral vision: a fallen pink Tribble across the dance floor. Without explanation, he took off running and dove on the treasure, sliding on the slick floor. He became intent on locating another. It was like the fucking Klingon ship. If you looked closely, there was serious trouble with Tribbles. They were all over the floor, so he picked up three more within a few feet of his current spot on the floor.

"That's definitely the look for you, Murphy." Lance laughed, when he walked up to the bar. "All you need is the pigtails and the skirt."

"All I need is more ta drink." He groaned, as one of the tribbles fell out of his short hair. "How tha fuck do ya think they get them ta stay in?"

"You don't exactly have the hair for it." Lance said, pouring him a whiskey. Murph was trying his damnedest to tie the tribble back into his hair the best he could. "So should I be cutting you off?"

"Probably, but I'd appreciate it if ya didn't. I gotta get me brother ta dance. He was havin' nothin' ta do with that 'Shake yer Bon Bon' shite. Can't say that I blame him, but it's funny as hell. Gotta get him drunk. Then he'll see tha humor in it."

"Well, a Zombie it is then."

"A Zombie?"

"You want him drunk?"

Murph nodded.

"This will do it. Rum."

"And a weak blue thing fer our date. She's got ta get us home. We have no idea where tha fuck we are."

"Here you go. Good luck."

Murph smelled of The Zombie and it smelled terrible but he figured Connor had a wee buzz on and would drink it.

Shannon laughed at the tribbles in his hair and Connor rolled his eyes but slammed back The Zombie then mouthed with a grimace, what the fuck was in that. They started scrapping on the floor when Murph tackled Connor and tried to put the other pair of tribbles in his hair.

"No fucking way."

"Come on, Connor. Look at Shannon. She's laughin' her arse off." Murph pointed at Shannon, who was doubled over with laughter at the two of them. "Be a good lad now."

"Just remember, Murph, paybacks are hell." Connor grinned sinisterly, then smacked at his hands. "Let me put in tha goddam tribbles meself. What, do ya think yer a fuckin' hairdresser now?"

"Yers are crooked."

"And yers aren't, fuckwit?" Connor shot back. "Christ, I need another drink."

"I'll be right back." Murph ran back to the bar, thinking all his plans were coming together.

"I need another one of those Zombie things in tha biggest glass ye got, Lance. He put in tha tribbles!"

"I thought you were getting in a fight out there, Murphy. That's your brother?" the bartender grimaced, locating a long cylindrical glass that looked very artful. "It holds a quart. If he dies—"

"Irish, Lance. We're Irish. And we're going ta do a jig on yer bar before closin' time! Ta that I like big butts song."

"Judging from the way he fought you on those—what do you keep calling them?"

"Tribbles. Don't ya know yer Star Trek, Lance?"

"Well, I have my doubts he'll get up on the bar with you."

"He owes me big."

"What does his girlfriend think?"

"Oh, that's not his girlfriend. She's just a girl we know from church and work."

"Church, huh?"

"Don't ask me. Will ya get them to cue up that hit Britney one more time song again? I'm going ta get Connor ta dance ta it."

"I'll see what I can do." Lance said, shoving the enormous glass to Murph with a laugh.

"Here's yer drink, Conn." Murph said, shoving the giant drink into Connor's hands. He was talking to Shannon.

"Murphy, will you dance with me?" she asked.

"Sure. Enjoy yer drink, Conn." He grinned and followed her out to the dance floor.

By the end of the song, there were some pissed off Britneys. Murph had decided that Shannon's heels were really not very practical, so when she took them off and he tossed them in Connor's direction, he hadn't meant to hit one of the Britneys in the head with one of the shoes but oops, he did it. Hell, the girl should have been glad it wasn't one of his boots. She had the same shellac-looking lipstick in a shade of pink like Shannon's except her lips were curled in an indignant huff, especially when he and Connor looked at each other and started laughing. Connor laughing instead of getting up and apologizing profusely was a good sign. Connor was well on his way to drunk and kept laughing as he watched Murph and Shannon spin around in a circle faster and faster until one of them let go, sending both of them sliding across the dance floor on their asses crashing into Britneys.

"What the fuck was that? Britney bowling?" Lance asked, laughing as Murphy approached the bar when the song ended. "I know, another giant Zombie and a whiskey."

"Do these places make a lot of money, Lance?"

"When people like you come in and toss down five hundred bucks and don't ask for change, yeah."

"That's yer tip, Lance. Keep track of the bill and take the rest out fer yerself. Jesus, ya saved me life tonight."

"They make most of their money on the cover charge. The Britneys usually drink the cheap drink special. It's when people order a real cocktail. I don't remember the last time I made A Zombie in this place. It's nice to do something different for once. I'd rather work somewhere else but the tips are good and it pays tuition."

"So yer in college, Lance?"

"Yeah, trying ta finish up at U Mass."

"What are ye studyin'?"

"Pre med."

"Take yer MCATs yet?"

"They're the week before Christmas. Are you a student, Murphy?"

"Bolster up on yer physical sciences unless ye took P-Chem. Otherwise, ye'll have a shocker."

"Are you a doctor?"

"Lance," he laughed, picking up the drinks, "now do I look like a fuckin' doctor?"

* * *

"You look really funny with those pink things in your hair, Murphy." Shannon said, as she made him slow dance with her to some fucking song by some teenage boys that sounded like their underwear was too tight. Something about I want it that way. You aren't going to get it sounding like that, you squeaky little motherfuckers, he thought.

"I do me best."

"If I cooked dinner one night, would you come over?" she asked, leaning in to speak softly in his ear. All he could think was that those sequins on her bra were a little scratchy against his bare skin. He still had the shirt tied up Britney-style.

Oh, Leah, why didn't we ever just get Connor really, really drunk and make him dance, he thought, looking over at Connor, who was juggling tribbles he had found on the floor after dancing to the hit Britney one more time song. He and Murph had danced out of time, copying the moves of all the Britneys poorly and collapsing a few times on the floor laughing. But there he sat juggling what looked like four tribbles grinning like a fool with his shirt tied up like Murph's, while Murph danced with Shannon.

"Sure, Connor and I'd love a home cooked meal. We can help if ya want." He said, backing away a bit. His chest wasn't very hairy but jesus, those fucking sequins were pulling out the few hairs he did have.

"Oh."

"What?"

"I was—never mind."

"What?"

"I was asking you to come over for a date, Murphy."

He frowned. "Ya know, Shannon, earlier at dinner when I was tellin' ya that ya ought ta go ta school and make a better life fer yerself, I meant it. Yer too decent for this hellhole we're livin in. That place we work in is not an appropriate environment fer someone like ya. And I'm not tha kind of guy ya need. I wish I was but I'm not in any position ta drag ya in ta my grand mess of a life. It wouldn't be fair ta ya. Ya listen ta me. I care about what happens ta ya. Me brother and I both do. Ye can ask us fer help any time ya need it, a laugh any time ya need one, but I can't be yer boyfriend."

"Is it because you don't think I'm pretty enough?"

Fuck, he thought, did she think he was that shallow? Him or all men? No, Shannon, you're certainly pretty enough although you look better without the fucking circus clown makeup. But you definitely don't belong with someone who has murdered six people and had a hand in killing a seventh. You definitely don't need someone who wishes you were really were a different person, because you don't understand what the fuck I am talking about every time I open my fucking mouth. And, for fuck's sake, why can't you see through me? You need someone who will love you for you. And nobody needs anyone who is trying to do a lifetime of penance. But no, it has nothing to do with whether you're "pretty enough." Well, maybe except for that hairdo fixed by something with the holding strength of super glue. Damn, the fucking hair didn't move, not a single bloody strand.

"Ah, Shannon. Ye are lovely. Ya know, I lost someone very dear ta me not too long ago, who told me somethin' I think is very wise when it comes ta relationships. And I'll share it with ya. One of the worst mistakes ye can make, she said, is ta sell yerself short." He said kindly. "It may take ye a while ta find the right one, but when ya do, he better treat ya right or he'll have Connor and Murphy ta answer ta."

"Are you gay?" she asked, her shiny lips looking a bit like the Britney's who was hit by her shoe.

He laughed, taken aback a bit and then more heartily when he thought of how he must look with the tribbles in his hair and his shirt tied up around his chest. "I probably look that way, don't I?"

"Is Connor gay too?"

"No, Connor is not gay. But he is drunk." Murph cried, starting to howl with laughter and ran over to his brother.

* * *

Shannon did not get her birthday wish of a sexy evening with Murphy MacManus. Instead, her evening ended with the two brothers jumping up on the bar and dancing like idiots to Sir-Mix-A-Lot. The only line they knew, which they yelled at the top of their lungs, much to the amusement of the Britneys, who kept throwing dollar bills at them, was "My anaconda don't want none, if you ain't got buns, hon." They were not too unruly in the cab back to Southie. Connor kept falling asleep then mumbling and chuckling, "Anaconda…buns, hon." Murphy was slumped against his brother's shoulder, sleeping. Since she had no idea where they actually lived, Shannon guided them into her apartment and when she returned to get in her bed, there they were, snoring on their backs in her bed. Murphy still had those stupid pink ponytail holders in his hair, but he looked completely cute and Connor was passed out. And she really wanted to kiss Murphy. She had been wanting to kiss him since the day she noticed him pulling weeds out in the community garden at the church. She had been walking through picking vegetables with the nuns and spotted him. He looked up and smiled vaguely at her. He was so sexy with those piercing blue eyes and that messy dark hair.

"Shannon, this is a bad idea." He said quietly, when he awoke to her lips and body covering his. He wormed out from under her, losing what he figured were his last remaining chest hairs and walked out of the room. She followed him into the living room.

"I just want you to kiss me."

He stared at her with those intense blue eyes that made her knees feel like jello and bit his thumbnail.

"Please, Murphy."

"Thank ya for liking me, Shannon. Thank ya. It just wouldn't be right, okay? I've got ta put everything right again." He said sincerely.

"But I work out everyday. I'm not fat. I—"

What the fuck?

"Shannon—" he began to start a reassuring discourse then stopped short.

Fuck that noise. No, you're not fat, Shannon. You're just fucked up and—not fat, what the fuck was that shit? Let me see your teeth, Shannon. So I can see if all your enamel has eroded because you're a fucking bulimic. Not fat. There are worse things than having a few extra pounds, Shannon, like listening to someone you love being dragged from her car to be tortured, like wishing every fucking day of your life you could start that day over and make it happen differently, so your brother would still have a wife and they would be getting ready to have a baby now and you'd be saving lives instead of ending them and maybe finding someone that you could love, that someone that understood you.

She has never had an experience that has deepened her, he said to himself silently, trying to calm himself, before he said the ugliest things he could imagine to her. She doesn't know any better.

"Connor! Connor! Get tha fuck up!" he yelled, walking into the bedroom and shaking his brother awake.

"Wha—what tha hell, Murph? Where—"

"Connor, just come on." He said, desperately trying to pull his limp brother to his feet. "Need ya ta be vertical."

"Want ta sleep."

"We'll be home in ten minutes and ye can sleep all ye want." He said, throwing on his own coat and grabbing Connor's.

"What's wrong, Murphy?" Shannon asked, standing in the doorway. "Are you mad at me?"

"We'll see ya in church tomorrow. Hope ya had a good birthday." He said, leading Connor past her.

**A/N: I don't know about you all, but there is nothing more annoying and girly than someone saying "Are you mad at me?" Next chapter will be happy antics hopefully. After all, the parish has a toy drive and Mrs. O'Hanis has already started making costumes for Santa and his elf...So who will be Santa and who will be the elf?**


	17. Unexpected

**A/N: I think somebody deserves a good day…**

Connor picked up the phone when it rang, and Murph couldn't tell who was on the phone from the expression on his face. Connor was not his usual jovial, bullshitting self, so it couldn't be Rocco. He didn't have the stand-at-attention-and-try-not-to-show-fear look that always meant Ma was on the other end although thousands of kilometers away. Connor was just staring at a space on the wall as he listened to whoever it was on the other end, then he said, "No, I'm afraid that won't be possible."

Then Murphy saw him scowl and bring the phone over to him. "I'm goin' ta put him on and ya can talk ta him."

Connor glared at him as he handed him the phone.

"Hello?"

"Murphy, it's—"

"Clarissa?"

"I don't believe ya, Murph! What the fuck are ya thinkin'?" Connor demanded, as Murph tied the laces of his boots.

"I don't believe yer not goin' ta see her, Connor. Connor, for the love of Christ, she is goodness in a world filled with shit. Don't ya get sick of all this darkness around ya? All this grime? Aren't ya bloody fuckin' sick of it? It's Clarissa for fuck's sake!"

"Ya shouldn't go. It's just goin' ta fill yer mind with painful memories." Connor muttered, smashing a beer bottle against the wall.

"No, brother, those memories are as precious ta me as anything I have. They're not painful. They're who I am. Clarissa is the loveliest person I know and I can't wait ta see her. I understand it's hard fer ya, Connor. But don't ye want a life again? Don't ya want ta be whole again?"

"I've got all I need right here. Maybe ye should just stay in Cambridge while yer there." Connor said spitefully.

Murphy stormed across the room and grabbed his brother into an embrace Connor had not anticipated. "I'll always be with ye, Connor. I'll be back later. I wish ye'd come with me. And I'll never leave ya. Remember that, 'kay?"

Connor nodded. "Sorry, Murph. Tell her—tell her I'm—well, just tell her I'm sorry, 'kay?"

"Ya goin' ta church?"

"Aye, ta work in tha sanctuary on tha pews then ta McGuinty's later."

* * *

The house had a bright red "Sold" on the real estate sign in the front yard. It had been seven months since he had left it for the last time. The place looked strangely the same. Big bay window, front porch, and the leaded glass front door reached by the walk from the street up the stone steps lined by the grass that was dormant in the winter chill. He saw a moving van in the driveway up the side of the house and a new model silver Volvo sedan. He did not hesitate in the car after parking it. He was eager to see the woman inside. He stepped out of the car and saw the front door fly open and there was Clarissa.

The air suddenly seemed clean and he could breathe again. She stood in the doorway, as familiar as he had hoped she would be. Her smile broadened as he quickened his pace toward her. She looked relaxed not sad at all. Her daughter's eyes had been shaped like hers, but Clarissa's were a rich hazel. Everything about Clarissa was self-assured and elegant and gracious. And she was opening her arms. And he knew exactly before he collapsed into them just how she would smell.

Standing in the doorway of the house, he closed his eyes and just breathed in the stillness of her, as she held him as tightly as he held her. He smiled against her throat, his head bowed, and went nearly limp when she began to stroke his hair and spoke his name softly and cheerfully in her accent as foreign to him as his must be to the citizens of this land. Her words were always enunciated perfectly but delivered at the speed of thick honey being dropped from a spoon into tea and with the same sweetness.

"Oh, my darling, Murph, I am so delighted to see you. I am so happy that you would come." She said, lifting his face with both of her hands and smiling warmly into his face. "Oh, how I've missed you."

He just smiled, breathing her in, letting all the pain and guilt fall away and knowing no matter how short a time this would be, he had to enjoy every moment of it.

"Will you come in, Murphy, or is it--?"

"I'd love ta come in, Clarissa." He said and she smiled.

The furniture had been loaded into the moving van. Only a few pieces remained, and the movers were finishing up when he entered the house. The walls had been painted neutral colors. All the rich colors Leah had chosen were gone.

As if sensing his confusion, Clarissa spoke, "The realtor said the house would sell more easily with neutral colors on the walls."

"It looks different."

"Yes, it does."

"Where's Jack?"

"Ma'am, we're ready." One of the movers interrupted when she began to speak. He was thrusting a clipboard into her hand.

"Well, you know where to go and I appreciate all your hard work." She said, signing the paper.

"Thanks, ma'am."

Murph followed her to the window seat. She smiled at him for a moment then peered out the window, tucking her legs up under her. He studied her profile. Sometimes you could see Leah in it. Sometimes not. Not today. Clarissa's cheekbones were higher and more pronounced, her nose a bit longer, her eyes more expressive, her lips a bit fuller. The smooth ivory skin was the same though. Leah's complexion had been inherited directly from her mother as had her hair. That rich brown hair. People used to think that Leah and he were siblings instead of him and Connor. Clarissa had grown her hair longer since he had last seen her and was wearing it in a high bun. In time, Leah would have grown as beautiful as her mother, Murph thought.

"Murphy, Jack was never a faithful husband. Even when Leah was a baby, he had a girlfriend. I didn't know for years but I discovered it when she was about six. He was a good father though, and Leah adored him. For her, I stayed with him. But not after she died, I wouldn't do it, so Jack and I are in the middle of an extremely messy divorce." She said finally, turning to look at him.

"Clarissa, I am so sorry." Murph said, not really knowing what to say. The Winslows had appeared to have the epitome of a perfect marriage. That was what everyone had always thought. He and Connor had always thought Jack and Clarissa were the perfect parents, the very icons of domestic harmony and bliss. "That—that piece of—excuse me."

"Thank you, dear." She chuckled.

"He cheated on ye? On **ye**? How could anyone cheat on **ye**? What the fu—devil was he thinkin'?"

"He was just a typical doctor, Murphy." She quipped with a smirk he didn't catch at first.

"Aye, yer right. They're such bas—egoists with god complexes." He agreed, then eyed her suspiciously and she laughed. "I fell right in ta that one, didn't I?"

She giggled for a few moments and he watched her, enjoying being the butt of that joke, enjoying hearing her laugh. "Oh, dear, I haven't laughed that much in quite a while. Shame on me. The look on your face was priceless though."

"Well, I hope ya know I'm not like that." He said with mock indignation, enjoying himself immensely.

"Your mother wouldn't give me your phone number. I had to get it from Helen Hurdle."

"She doesn't aid and abet the Calvinists." He quipped.

"So is that it?" Clarissa chuckled, picking up his hand. She ran her fingers over his "Aequitas" tattoo. "So tell me about all this iconography. The one on your neck is just ridiculous by the way."

He smiled momentarily. Then he really didn't know what to say.

"You've got something on your mind." She said quietly, squeezing his hand.

"Yes, I do." He said, wishing for a cigarette.

"Tell me."

"Do ya really want ta know?" he asked both her and himself.

"Yes, I do."

"They're all dead." He told her, looking her straight in the eyes. "Yer holdin' tha hand of tha man, who murdered six of tha seven men that raped and killed yer child. Connor killed tha other."

"I wish I could have been with you." She said evenly, looking deeply into his eyes as she brought his hand to her lips.

"Yer always with me, Clarissa." He said. "Connor thinks only four men raped her. The DNA was botched from tha crime lab. But when tha DNA was rerun properly, it showed seven. I never told him. All this ink on me is fer each one of them, ta remind me that I've got ta work my way back ta serving God properly."

"While you are serving God, Murphy, please promise me that you will try to find some happiness along the way." Clarissa said, pulling him to her and holding him tight. "Promise."

"I promise, Clarissa."

"Good." She said, not making any effort to let him go and he was content to stay wrapped in her arms as long as she would hold him in the window seat. The soft cashmere of her sweater felt wonderful against his cheek, and he felt safe and warm and himself.

* * *

"Are you hungry, darling?"

When his eyes opened and he realized that he was leaning against Clarissa on the window seat in the Cambridge house, he let out a contented sigh and then heard his stomach emit a hungry grumble.

"Let's go find a restaurant, Murphy, shall we? Do you feel like stretching your legs?"

"That's a bloody fantastic coat, Clarissa." He laughed, as she threw on a pale lavender pea coat. "I didn't know they came in that color."

"Well, sir, what I remember is most of what you know comes out of textbooks and off bathroom walls." She chuckled, tucking in a scarf at her neck and pulling on matching mittens.

"I may not offer ye me arm on our walk fer that comment."

"Of course you will. But I know you'll get me back for it ten-fold." She said, as they set out on foot to find a spot to eat.

"So now that yer single, I see yer robbin' tha cradle, preyin' on Irish illegal aliens fer dates." He snickered, as she slid her hand through his arm.

"Why do I have a feeling that you are just getting started, Murph?"

"Is he any better?" she asked as they sat in a quiet café in Cambridge, eating the kind of lunch he had missed: one where the vegetarian option did not mean cheese pizza, French fries or Chinese food laden with MSG.

"He laughs now. We don't talk about her. He gets angry if I talk about her. But he has good days. Our lives are different, not what we imagined, but he's okay."

"Christmas is going to be difficult."

"Aye. It was always so perfect."

"Helen wants you to take that residency at the Mayo Clinic, Murph."

"Aye."

"Will you do it?"

He wiped some of the basil aioli from his portobello mushroom sandwich off his mouth before he answered. He kept his voice low. "These are a killer's hands, Clarissa. I turned against everything I believe when I killed. I violated tha sacred purpose of a doctor—ta do no harm. I don't regret what I did. Those people took our lives from us. And they would have done the same ta others, had we not stopped them. But I don't believe I will ever be a practicing doctor. I left that life behind when I made a decision ta kill. I lost tha right."

She closed her eyes and rubbed her temple, before she looked back to him. "Will you go back to Ireland, darling?"

"If he wants ta. He seems content now. We work. We go ta church. We help people in tha community. We drink."

"So you'll live to follow him?"

"It's me responsibility ta take care of him, Clarissa. Ye know that."

"And who takes care of you?"

Murph smiled. "I'm doin' just fine. I promise."

* * *

"Do you want to go through the house?" she asked, when they arrived on the front steps.

"No, it's all a memory now. Connor, Leah and Murphy don't live in that house anymore." He said quietly.

"So true. I wish your brother understood that. Now, Murphy, Connor had put quite a bit of money in this house. And the down payment was their wedding present. So I want to give the two of you the money." She said, reaching into her handbag. He put his hand over hers.

"He won't take it. Keep tha money. Do somethin' good with it. Somethin' she'd like. A scholarship or somethin'." He told her.

"You're going to leave now, aren't you, darling?" Clarissa asked suddenly.

He nodded, meeting her eyes sadly.

"Oh, Murphy, I'm not going to see you again, am I?"

He had not thought of a life without ever seeing her again. He was glad he was standing against the railing of the front porch because it was the only thing that kept him on his feet when those words sunk into his head. He turned and looked into those eyes that had seen as much as his had, but Clarissa's were still alive and full of compassion and he cringed at the thought of never seeing those eyes again.

"Yer goin' ta be a hot item on tha singles scene, Clarissa. They're goin' ta come linin' up ta court ya. Get a young one. Ye can train him ta do yer biddin'. And he'll fall all over 'imself ta please ya." He said, trying his best not to choke up.

"I suppose I should schedule a face lift first thing when I get back to Charleston then?" she sighed, cocking her head to the side, her eyes welling up.

"Don't ya dare. Me brother would have been tha luckiest man in tha world if she had aged ta look more like her mother." He said earnestly, grabbing both her hands, his own lachrymal glands betraying him.

"Always such a dear."

"Yer life's goin' ta get better now." He said, putting his arm around her and drawing his cheek close to hers.

"Murphy, will I see you again?" she insisted, her eyes closed, her brow furrowed, her lips pursed.

"It would make no sense." He said into her smooth cheek. "But I hope ya do."

"Then promise."

"I promise, Clarissa." He said, pressing his lips to the side of her mouth. "I love ye. I'll be seeing ya."

"Be happy until we meet again, Murphy. Please." She said, as he stepped away and their hands finally separated.

"I'll do me best." He said, as he walked away, watching her.

The last thing he saw was her blow him a kiss and wave as he drove away.

Thank you, Clarissa, he thought, as he headed back to Southie. Thank you for giving Leah to the world. And thank you for what you have given to me. Thank you for being magnificent.


	18. Ho Ho Oh No

**A/N: Merry Christmas, everyone. Here's a little funny for you guys to read. Cheers, Bel.**

He had already made the decision weeks before regarding the character he would be playing during the distribution of toys at the church, so Murphy gave his brother an extremely unbrotherly shove and dove on the Santa suit. There was no fucking way he was wearing a fucking elf costume with those pointy-toed moccasin things and what had to be Mrs. O'Hanis' old pantyhose. She was as sweet a lady as you could ask for but the thought of wearing her pantyhose made him want to puke. With Santa, he figured he could keep his own boots on and his own socks. Connor, on the other hand, had to put on plastic pointy ears, that stupid looking elf hat and a jumper that barely covered his cods.

"Hey, Connor, does this make me butt look big?" Murph laughed, stepping into the well-padded Santa suit.

"Ye didn't need any paddin' back there, ye idiot."

"Yer anaconda want some?"

"Yer in mighty good spirits, Murph." Connor grinned at the crack yet seemed perfectly content to be the elf. In fact, he was smirking at Murph with a shit-eating grin, as he adjusted his elf ears.

"What?" he asked suspiciously.

Connor shook his head, "Oh, nothin'."

"Hey, Connor, why do ya think one of tha legs in tha Santa suit is vinyl?"

Connor gave him an evil grin and walked out of the dressing room.

Oh fuck!

"Connor, come back here. I want ta be tha elf. Connor! Damn it ta hell."

* * *

"Murph, it's not like we don't have tha keys. Ye can come out on yer own or we'll unlock tha door and I'll drag ye out."

"Not comin' out." He yelled back.

"Ye are too."

"Not holdin' any kids."

"Ye are too."

"I thought we were just handin' out presents."

"Well, if ya had opened yer eyes and seen tha chair and tha camera set up, then ye'd have known. Now, look, I'm not arguin' with ya. Come out."

"No."

"Fine."

A moment later, he heard the key in the door and was ready to deliver a blow that would flatten his brother. When the door opened, he stopped his fist just in time before it contacted the face of Mrs. O'Hanis, who was surrounded by the other church ladies, all of whom wore shocked faces and bitch flaps.

"Now, Murphy MacManus, the children are waiting on you. Your brother is already in position. There will be no fighting. You agreed to do this, so there will no backing out now." Mrs O'Hanis said authoritatively, grabbing his arm and pulling him. Mrs. Dillon and Mrs. Higgins got behind him and started shoving.

"Now, they only sit on the rubber leg. If they pee, Connor will do a mop up between pictures. Aim them toward the camera. There's a bucket behind your chair in case they pull a Linda Blair. Don't let them get anything on the rest of the suit. Only the rubber leg." Mrs. Dillon instructed. "Murphy, are you listening?"

"Aye, ma'am."

"And don't jiggle them. It makes them queasy. Whatever you do, don't bounce them on your knee. Some of the parents may want both their children to be in the picture. One will have to stand next to you. No one sits on the fabric leg." Mrs. O'Hanis said. "Repeat this to me. 'They sit only on the rubber leg.'"

"They sit only on tha rubber leg." He said miserably.

"And don't 'ho ho ho' at them. It makes them cry and scream." Mrs. Higgins added. "Just gently tell them to have a Merry Christmas and let Connor hand them the gift. Get the picture and send them on their way. The less you say, the better. Last year, my husband was Santa and had been to the pub before and thought it would be funny to pretend to be the Wicked Witch of the West to one of the children and said, 'Hello, my little pretty.' We've never seen that much urine come out of a child. It penetrated the rubber leg. So no monkey business, Murphy. We'll be watching you."

"And don't squeeze them. That also causes something to come out one end or the other." Mrs. Dillon said vehemently.

"No squeezin'"

"And, by all means, don't let them hug you. That's usually when they Linda Blair. It ruins the beard and wig." Mrs. O'Hanis said, as they neared the chair. Connor stood by a heap of presents grinning. "We've got extra beards and wigs on hand, but let's not need to use them, okay, Murphy? We're really counting on you. Remember only the rubber leg."

When they "Linda Blair," he wondered, do they also yell "Your mother sucks cocks in hell?" He decided not to ask.

"Okay, let's let them in." Mrs. O'Hanis told Mrs. Dillon.

* * *

Why the fuck do people feed their kids things that are bright blue, Murph wondered, jamming the little boy's head down in the Linda Blair bucket. Blue with sprinkles. Jesus. At least this one hadn't pissed itself or screamed. His fucking ears were ringing and his head was about to split.

"Feelin' better?" he asked the little fucker, when it stopped heaving.

"Uh-huh."

"Go find yer ma." Murph said, giving him a small shove. "Elf, present please. Then we need a replacement barf bucket. Chop chop, elf."

"Cut it the fuck out, Murph." Connor snapped, taking the puke bucket out of the camera frame.

It was the only revenge he had. Connor wasn't getting peed and puked on.

* * *

"One last kiddo." Mrs. O'Hanis called from the doorway.

Murph looked up and there was Rocco. He was never going to live this shit down.

"Ho ho ho, what would ya like Santa to bring ya for Christmas, little boy?" Murph laughed, when Rocco sat on the rubber leg.

"A blow job." Rocco replied, grinning as the camera snapped a picture.

"Hey, Rocco. Do ya realize you're sitting in the same place about thirty kids have pissed themselves today and two have shit themselves?"

"What tha fuck?"

"Quick, elf, the barf bucket! I think he's goin' ta Linda Blair!"

Connor brought out the bucket that had not been well-rinsed and stuck in Rocco's face.

"Fuck you, guys!" Rocco jumped up and out of the way.

"Are we finished for tha day, Mrs. O'Hanis?" Connor asked.

"Yes, boys. Go get changed and then we'll have cake."

"Fuck that." Murph muttered. "I'm goin' ta get a shower then I'm goin' ta get piss drunk."

* * *

Definition:

bitch flaps: hands on hips


	19. New Year Coming

**A/N: Thanks to all of you who have been along for the ride. This is where this part of the story ends. This chapter is inspired by a line from the movie where Smecker tells all the cops in the station that everyone he has interviewed describes the boys as "angels." Cheers, Bel (who promises to be back with comedy. Okay, and probably some tragedy too. They go hand in hand.) Love to you all.**

"You're what?" Rocco hollered in disbelief, spewing beer on the bar.

Doc roared a quintessential "Fuck! Ass!" and threw a towel at him and told him to clean the mess up himself.

"Guys, it's fuckin' New Years' Eve! What the fuck?" Rocco continued, as he haphazardly dabbed at the bar, looking from brother to brother.

"Oi, ye missed a spot, ye fuckwit." Murph chuckled, pointing at the damp wood of the bar.

"Where?" Rocco demanded.

"Over here too." Connor snickered.

"Fuck you, guys. Now what the fuck do you mean you're gonna be at church on New Year's Eve? What the fuck?" Rocco threw the towel at Murph, who threw it at Connor, who then slipped it down the back of Rocco's coat without him noticing.

"What we mean, Roc, is we're goin' ta be at church." Connor grinned, lighting two cigarettes and handing one to Murph across Rocco.

"On New Fucking Years Fucking Eve?"

"Aye, Rocco, I think we've established that." Murph said, shaking his head at Rocco.

"You fuckers are gonna miss the best party night of the year. What the fuck?"

"We promised Father O'Meara." Connor said.

"Fuckin' micks."

The twins shrugged.

Murph would be the first to admit he was not particularly excited about their plans for New Year's Eve but when there was a need, both the brothers knew it was their responsibility to fulfill it. Some fucking penance though.

The church annually offered free baby-sitting services to its parishioners who wanted to go out on New Year's Eve. Murphy and Connor approved of this idea, seeing the benefit of a safe haven for children on a potentially dangerous night. Trustworthy teenagers and adults volunteered to host the annual lock-in for the children, where there were all sorts of activities until bedtime. Parents picked up their children the next morning. Murphy was fairly sure there would be lots of sugar-laden food involved, since Mrs. O'Hanis and Mrs. Higgins were in charge of the food preparation. At least he did not have to dress up as anything. Hopefully there would be fewer excretions from the children involved in this go round. He planned to make sure that there was an adequate supply of toilet paper on hand for Patton's third army. And he wasn't changing one fucking diaper. There was a reason he had not done a pediatrics rotation.

* * *

Well, this didn't look too bad, Murph thought, as they entered the well-decorated fellowship hall. It looked like an arts and crafts (farts and craps, Murph thought) nightmare, seeing all the supplies for face-painting, lanyard-making, craft paper and crayons, and god knows what else. Just as long as they didn't give the little fuckers a bunch of—goddammit.

"Murphy, Connor. Could you help us with these crates of milk, please?" called Mrs. O'Hanis from the kitchen area.

Milk farts. The place would be reek of milk farts. Goddammit, they had chocolate milk too. That always made the fuckers crap too.

"Oh, this is going to be such a wonderful party this year. I had time to make my special fudge. Children just love it." She said, as Murph and Connor lifted the crates of milk from the dolly into the kitchen's cooler.

Fudge. Fucking fudge. Just fucking perfect, Mrs. O'Hanis. You're going to leave in about ten minutes and fifty kids are going to come in here and get so wired on sugar, they're going to bounce off the fucking walls and crap themselves while doing it.

"That was very considerate of ye." Connor smiled.

Ye ignorant fool, Murph thought, don't know a damn thing about the effect of sucrose on children's metabolisms. No wonder people keep on and on about their children having ADHD. Look what the fuck they're feeding the little buggers!

"Looks like ye packed it well." Murph grinned at Connor, who winced trying to suppress a laugh but failed. Murph started coughing loudly and shoving Connor out of the kitchen into the stairwell, where they collapsed laughing.

"I bloody can't believe ya said that ta her." Connor howled, tears falling out of his eyes.

"Couldn't resist." Murph laughed, then held up his index finger and waggled it at Connor, who began laughing harder.

Together they tried to sing the jingle for Cadbury's Fudge but could never get it out coherently: "A finger of Fudge is just enough to give your kids a treat." A favorite insult as teenagers had been to call one another Cadbury plant workers.

* * *

"Bollocks, that's a lot of phlegm." Murph said, when the two parents that looked no older than sixteen handed over a three year old girl, who was crying and promptly sneezed on the leg of his jeans as he was putting a checkmark by her name. "Has she been ta tha doctor?"

"Oh, she's fine. Doctors are a waste of time." The mother said, smacking gum. "So can we go now? This is free, right?"

Murph put his hand on the little girl's forehead, which was hot. "She's got a fever."

"She'll be fine. Bye, Sarah."

Fuckin' babies havin' babies.

"Conn, will ya take over fer a second here? I've got a sick one."

Connor nodded.

Murph picked up the little girl and took her over to a child-sized table in the fellowship hall.

"Sarah, I'm Murphy."

"You're the turkey that came to my house."

Just fucking perfect, he thought. Those assholes would probably drop a hundred bucks at a bar tonight but won't take their child to the doctor.

"Okay, can ye tell me where ye feel bad, sweetheart?"

"My ear hurts."

"Yeah? How long has it been hurtin'?" he asked.

"Since Friday."

Fucking parents. The child obviously has an upper respiratory infection and the ears are infected. Christ almighty.

"Hey, Conn. I've got ta leave Sarah here with ya fer a bit. I've got ta run back ta tha loft and get tha bag of antibiotics. She's got an infection that could lead ta hearing loss because her fuckwit parents won't take her ta tha doctor. Five days on Cipro will knock it out. I'm goin' by the pharmacy and pickin' up some other supplies too. There are way too many sick kids in here. These fuckin' trashy people." He grumbled to Connor, who nodded. "Will ya keep an eye on her?"

"I got her. Carry on, Dr. MacManus. Do ye need some cash?"

Murph shook his head and buttoned up his coat and headed out into the night, furious.

Didn't those fuckers realize how precious that little life was in their hands? How responsible they were for it?

Goddammit, he thought, I was going to be a bloody fantastic uncle. The baby would have never had an ear infection like that little girl. If Leah and Connor had wanted to go out on New Year's Eve, he would have gladly stayed home with the baby. But they always stayed home on New Year's Eve. They were always in South Carolina at Leah's parents' house. No one ever treated him like a fifth wheel at the Winslow home. In fact, they always protested vehemently if he made the slightest indication that he might not be coming down with Leah and Connor. He had never wanted to intrude on their privacy.

He stubbed out his cigarette and entered the pharmacy with his head ducked. He was deep in thought. The people who had bought their house in Cambridge had a toddler. It was a safe place to grow up. The people in the neighborhood were so friendly—

"Uh!" He heard a startled voice, as he heard a crash and looked up and saw what he had done. As he had been storming down the cold care aisle of the drugstore filling the cart with fever reducer, saline mist and cough syrup, he had plowed into a petite young woman in a long black coat and knocked her and her cold care items to the ground.

Perfect.

"I'm so sorry." He said, leaning down next to her. "Are ye alright?"

She turned and brushed a piece of long dark hair out of her face and looked at him with rich coffee-colored eyes then immediately looked away and coughed, covering her mouth with her hand. The cough sounded terrible.

"Did I hurt ya, miss?" he asked softly, holding his hand out to her. "I think I must have slammed in ta ya pretty hard ta knock ye down like that."

"I'm okay." She answered quietly.

"Let's get ye up off this floor then." He said, reaching around and pulling her up. He noticed she blushed, when he put his arm around her waist. "I feel like an idiot. Fer not watchin' where I was goin'. Lost in me thoughts. Are ye sure yer okay?"

She coughed again. "Excuse me."

"Let me get yer things up." He said. "Sounds like yer not feelin' so good. What are yer symptoms? Other than that cough."

She blushed again and looked at him briefly, then looked away after mumbling thanks, when he handed her the basket she had been carrying with its contents replaced.

"I'm fine, really." She said, and he noticed she tried to smile. He also noticed she looked absolutely miserable. Without asking permission, he reached over and put his hand on her forehead. Her eyes widened and the blush came into her cheeks again.

"Christ, yer burnin' up." He grimaced, reaching for a packaged digital thermometer, hanging next to the cough medicine and opening it.

"Hey, buddy, you just can't be opening products in the store." A clerk called down the aisle.

"I bloody well can if I'm goin' ta pay fer them, ya bast—I will pay fer this and anythin' else at the register." He began to shout and regained his composure, somewhere in there, popping the thermometer in the girl's mouth, who was actually giggling at him.

"Tosser." He mumbled, and the girl laughed again. He grinned and pointed his finger at her. "Keep yer mouth closed until we get a readin'"

The thermometer beeped and gave a reading of 103.1 degrees. Murph slipped the thermometer into its package, as the girl began to cough and sneeze. She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and blew her nose.

"Bloody hell, yer temperature is almost high enough ta be in the hospital! Lean against me cart. I know yer about ta collapse from that fever. Now, let me have a look at yer tissue there."

"What?" she cried, the look on her face absolutely shocked. It was so tempting to laugh.

"Well, obviously I've got a fetish fer snot. No, I've got ta see what color it is ta see if ye've got a bacterial infection or a URI from a virus. Antibiotics won't do ya a bit a good if ye've got a virus." He told her, as she stared at him. He guessed not many people asked to look at your used tissue, so he just grabbed the tissue. "Green. My bet is yer fightin' a bacterial infection. What's yer name?"

"Kati." She said, her eyebrow raised, and he guessed she was probably a little reluctant to give a guy who just grabbed a tissue and examined the snot in it her name.

He laughed silently at the thought, then said, "I'm Murphy. Ye don't need me ta tell ya this, but yer really sick."

"I know. I've had to work and I just got sick."

"Kati, yer really sick. That temp's too high." He said, then spotted the wanker stocking the shelves. "Hey, buddy, ya got a stethoscope in this place?"

"Aisle fourteen."

"Okay, Kati, be right back. Ye lean against tha cart." He told her, stroking her hair gently, before running over to aisle fourteen.

When he returned with the crappy excuse for a stethoscope, she was sitting on the floor.

"Started feelin' faint, did ya?"

"A little." She admitted.

"Me slammin' me cart in ta ya, didn't help, either, did it?"

She laughed softly and began coughing.

"Okay, Kati, I need to listen ta yer lungs. So we need ta take yer coat off fer a minute and let me have a listen."

She blushed. "No."

"What?"

"I'm in my pajamas." She whispered.

"Hello Kitty?" he grinned.

"Star Trek." She looked a bit insulted when she answered.

"I've always been partial ta Klingons meself. Look, it's got ta be done. If ye don't want me haulin' ye ta tha emergency room tonight, ye'll let me listen ta yer back."

"Kirk or Picard?" she sighed, taking off her coat to reveal flannel Star Trek pajamas with the USS Enterprise cruising through the starry heavens.

"Picard. But Spock should have run tha show in tha original. Kirk was a total wanker. Cool jammies." He said, rubbing the metal of the stethoscope so it would be warm when he put it on the skin of her back. "I'm going ta listen ta yer lungs now. So, I need ya ta take some deep breaths fer me."

Yep, just like he thought. Raspy.

"Okay, let's get yer coat back on ya." He said, opening a box of liquid fever reducer and pouring a dose into the cup. "Drink."

"Nasty." She said, after taking it. "Why are you being so nice to me?"

"Why shouldn't I be?" he chuckled, reaching in his basket and pulling out a bottle of Pedia-lyte. He then reached into his pocket and pulled out the bottle of Cipro and pulled out a pill. "Okay, Kati, here's yer first dose of Cipro and some yummy Pedia-lyte ta wash it down. The Cipro will knock out yer pneumonia in about ten days. You'll need ta take the entire round. No feelin' better and not takin' tha pills. Can't be havin' more antibiotic resistance in tha world, ye know."

"Cipro? The last time I went to the doctor and he prescribed it, I couldn't afford the prescription. How—"

"These are samples." Murph said quickly.

"You're a doctor, aren't you?"

"Trained as one. On nights like this, I guess I am one. On other days, ye never know what I'm up ta." He said with a smirk. Wasn't that the truth? "We've got ta break yer fever, darlin'. Or else yer goin' ta tha hospital and they'll have ta put ya on IV antibiotics."

"I don't want to go to the hospital."

"We'll try ta keep ya from goin', okay? So it looks like ye've got a lot of stuff in yer basket there. This is junk. This, ye don't need. Ah, this is total shite. Okay, we're goin' ta get ya some saline mist fer yer nose. More of this liquid fever reducer. And I'm goin' ta grab another case of Pedia-lyte. Then I'm gettin' ya home out of this weather. Ye sit here."

"Here's some money."

"Don't worry about it." He chuckled.

"I can get home by myself." She said, when they walked out of the pharmacy into the bitter cold.

"Tha hell ye can. Ye can't even stay upright for five minutes much less carry a case of Pedia-lyte." He scoffed, then snickered. "Kati, I think we're goin' ta do somethin' extremely rude and bag-lady-like."

"What?"

He began loading the Pedia-lyte in the lower shelf of the pharmacy cart and putting the bags in the basket where all the no doubt dirty-diapered children sat.

"Yer chariot, madame." He grinned, pointing to the basket of the shopping cart.

"No way!" she managed to laugh but started to cough.

"Oh, yes." He laughed and grabbed her around the waist and lifted her into the cart. He gently took her scarf and tied it around her head and ears then tucked it down the front of her coat. "Gotta make sure yer head's covered up, because we're about to reach warp speed, because I know that apothecary nazi is goin' ta shit when he sees us take off. Ready?"

"Make it so!" she laughed.

Murph began running, laughing too, pushing the cart through the snow in the direction Kati had pointed.

"So, Kati, I have a joke fer ya." He said, when they slowed down to a brisk walk, feeling they were safe from the wrath of the pharmacy jerk.

"Okay."

"What do toilet paper and tha USS Enterprise have in common?" Murph chuckled to the feverish girl in the cart, who had told him her apartment was not far up ahead.

"That's an old one, Murphy. They both go trolling for Klingons around Uranus." She said with slight reproach but he could tell she was smiling.

"Damn, I love that one." He groaned in mock defeat.

"Me too. Sorry that I'd already heard it. You could tell it again, and I'll pretend I don't know it." She said.

"No, ye've burst me bubble. I'm wounded forever." He chuckled, tapping her on the nose.

"We're here." She told him, pointing to her house.

"Okay, let's get ye up and out of this blasted contraption." He grinned, thinking maybe the night wasn't so bad, as he picked her up and set her on the ground.

Kati's place was much nicer than his and Connor's. It was a small house but the street wasn't filled with garbage and there weren't people yelling in houses so loudly that you could hear them in the street. Maybe Southie wasn't so bad.

"Ya got any family?"

"Yes, but I live with roommates. They're all out celebrating."

"Sounds like everybody's out celebratin' except us, aye? Well, let's get ye set up here and then I've got ta get back ta tha nightmare at tha church." He sighed, picking up the bag of her medicine and case of Pedia-lyte.

"It's nice of you to give up your evening for those kids and their parents."

"Just tryin' ta do tha right thin'." He said quietly, as she unlocked the door.

"Come in. It's okay."

"Okay." He answered, then spotted a pad and pen on a coffee table. "Can I write some instructions on this fer ya, Kati?"

"Sure." She said, sitting on the sofa across from him, as he began writing the regimen for her to follow:

1.1 Cipro tablet every morning and evening until gone.

2.Liquid fever reducer every four hours until fever breaks.

3.Saline mist three times a day until snot is clear. Save tissues for Murphy's collection—just kidding.

4.Drink Pedia-lyte until you want to puke. Then drink water. NO ALCOHOL—sorry.

5.Star Trek reruns—as many as you want.

6.Big hug for Murphy who will be checking up on you tomorrow afternoon.

"It's really important for ya ta stay hydrated. Tha Pedia-lyte stuff won't upset yer stomach. That's tha last thing ya need, so keep drinkin' it. I'm thinkin' a couple doses of Cipro is really goin' ta help along with tha fever reducer. So, before ya go ta sleep tonight, take another Cipro." He said, setting the pen down and looking around her house. "Let me take this Pedia-lyte ta wherever yer goin' ta be lyin' down then I'm goin' ta head out."

Her bedroom was full of books, books in bookshelves, books on a table, books in piles on the floor, books, books and books. He smiled at this and set down the Pedia-lyte next to her bed along with the liquid fever reducer, antibiotics and saline mist.

"Okay, time fer me ta go. I'll come by and check on ye tomorrow afternoon after we get rid of all tha kiddies. And I expect ye ta make a big dent in that Pedia-lyte." He said, as she followed him to the door. He turned and handed her the list of instructions. He grinned, watching her read it.

"I won't make you sick if I hug you?" she asked quietly.

"No, Kati." He smiled at her.

So she hugged him tightly. "How can I ever repay you?"

"Ye just did." He said, opening the door. "Now lock the door behind me and go get in yer bed and start feelin' better. I'll see ya tomorrow."

* * *

When Murph arrived back at the church, he was actually in fairly decent spirits. It had been a while since he had gotten to laugh about his favorite klingon joke with someone. However, when he entered the fellowship hall, he was met with madness and mayhem. Kids were running around everywhere. Fortunately, some were on a giant trampoline and others were contained on something that looked like a giant bean bag. Of course, the moment he pushed the pilfered pharmacy shopping cart into the large room, a child squealed from the blob-like bag about "another pool of pee over here" and he met his brother's eyes, his brother who was holding little Sarah on his hip with one hand and wielding a mop with the other. Connor rolled his eyes and burst out laughing. He put Sarah down and motioned for her to go to Murphy.

After he finished with Sarah, he shouted, "Alright, ye little buggers, if yer sick, get yer little bums over here and line up single file. Now! If yer coughing, hurting, puking, itching or just generally feelin' bad, come over here. Now!"

Connor wrote down the names of the ones whose parents would be given antibiotics and a stern talking to by Father O'Meara tomorrow morning, as Murph examined throats with a flashlight and disposable tongue depressors. Thank God he had gotten the nighttime fever reducer because then the little fuckers would get sleepy. There were twenty-two kids with fever. Eight of them had a bacterial infection that he could determine. He had never seen strep throat look like that before, not even in pictures. Earaches, sinusitis, that foul strep throat and the little one whose parents ought to be flogged for letting him get impetigo, those he could treat with antibiotics. But the pink eye, all he could do was ask Connor to rummage through the parish hall kitchen for a bag of chamomile tea to put over it. At least the kid would have a bag over his eye and couldn't get it on any of the other little fuckers. Hopefully there was some truth to the old folk remedy. And then there were kids with lice and scabies.

"Um, Shannon." He said politely, as the four children followed him.

"Hi, Murphy." She said, looking up from painting a child's face as a clown. Oh fuck, he thought, not so different than her makeup the night of her birthday.

She still liked him, and anytime he talked to her, she got excited. He had a feeling she was not going to get excited about this one.

"Would you and maybe Laura mind giving these kids baths in the bathrooms upstairs? Using this stuff?" he showed her the RID shampoo he had bought at the drugstore. He had surveyed the children before he left and had a bad feeling the shampoo would be needed. "Three lice, one scabies."

Please say yes, please. "I think it might be less awkward if women did it."

"Sure, Murphy. Can you finish Tina's paint for me?"

He knew he should feel guilty, but he didn't.

"Well, Tina, I think we should wipe this off and start over." He said, sitting down, as Shannon walked away. "Wouldn't ya rather be a giraffe?"

Clowns were too fucking freaky.

* * *

"We got fucked on a raw deal, brother." Connor said, when they caught a break due to half of the child population being passed out from nighttime fever reducer, a large part watching a video and a select few gorging itself on Mrs. O'Hanis' fudge, which was certain to cause an ugly blowout subsequently. But there was plenty of toilet paper and Murph had bought an assload of Immodium.

"Aye."

"While ye were gone, Laura started screaming for me ta come in ta tha alter boys' changing room. When I got in there, Billy Higgins and Fiona Feagley were puttin' their clothes back on. Apparently, Laura'd caught 'em in tha act and wanted me ta give them a talkin' ta."

"Did ya?"

"I had Sarah on me hip. I told them ta go look after tha kiddies and do their jobs."

"Goin' at it in the church? Fuck, they can't be any older than fifteen." Murph snickered. "Volunteerin' ta help with tha' kiddies, so they could sneak off and get their jollies."

"Aye."

"Ye started early with Emma."

"Shut it, Murph." But Connor didn't seem melancholy. "Ye've had yer share."

"Never in church."

"Ye would've if ye thought ye could've gotten away with it."

"Aye, if I didn't think The Lord would strike me dead, ye fuckwit."

* * *

"It's your turn for a nap, you guys." Shannon said, walking over to them around eleven-thirty. "Just go into the old convent. We'll wake you up in about four hours."

"Aye. Thanks, Shannon." Connor said. "I'm positively knackered."

"It's been quite a night. Thanks fer helping with tha lice."

"No problem, Murphy." She said, simpering at him.

They walked toward the old convent.

"Poor Shannon." Connor commented, lighting up in the churchyard.

"Aye."

"Can't make yerself like her, can ya?" Connor asked.

Murph shook his head.

"I don't blame ya, Murph. I wouldn't be able ta." Connor said, looking up at the sky then back at Murph. "Next year's goin' ta be better. I'm sorry, Murph, that yer here, that yer not in yer residency, that nothing turned out the way we planned it. I miss her like hell tonight. But I'm glad we killed them. And I think we're goin' ta be okay. I really think we're goin' ta be okay."

Murph nodded. "Me too."

"Ya comin' in?"

"In a bit. I'll be there in just a bit."

She probably wouldn't be home. But he decided he would call. He had the calling card in his wallet. And it was a number he knew by heart. And he wanted to wish her a Happy New Year.

"Hello?"

"Clarissa?"

"Murphy! How are you, dear?"

"I'm fine. Are ye busy?"

"No, I'm just sitting here, waiting for the ball to drop on the television."

"Thought ya might have a big date."

He grinned when she laughed. "There goes the ball. Happy new year, Murphy."

"Happy new year ta ye, Clarissa." He said, hearing cheers all around him from pubs, surrounding the pay phone. "Take care of yerself, okay?"

"I will, if you do."

"I will, Clarissa."

"Will I see you any time soon?"

"When ye least expect it, I imagine."

**A/N: So here it ends. I imagine the next day Murph will drag Connor to check in on his new friend Kati then they'll head straight to the pub. Thanks to all of you who stuck with Connor, Murph and me to the end. Cheers, Bel.**


End file.
